


A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words

by BethXP



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:14:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethXP/pseuds/BethXP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You and Combeferre have infinitely more chance of getting together than Enjolras and I,” Grantaire said with finality.<br/>Courfeyrac sat up straight. Grantaire did not like the gleam in his eye as he slowly raised his finger in the air like an idea worthy of Einstein had just come to him.<br/>“Are you quite sure of that sir?” Courfeyrac asked in a mock posh accent.<br/>“Indeed I am, my good fellow,” Grantaire replied in the same way.<br/>“Then monsieur, I challenge you to a little wager. I bet you that I can make Enjolras kiss you before you can make Combeferre kiss me.”<br/>“What? Courfeyrac that is ridic-”<br/>“Fifty euros says I can do it before you can. Just think, if you win you have fifty euros. If you lose Enjolras has just kissed you. It’s win-win situation.”<br/>Grantaire blinked twice.<br/>“So what are the ground rules?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful midnightecho for taking the time to beta this for me, I owe you a million doughnuts.
> 
> Please be aware this is e/R centric and Courferre is only a background ship.

“I know.”

Grantaire didn’t bother to move as Courfeyrac sat himself on the bar stool beside him and hijacked the beer he had been nursing out of his hand. He let out an exasperated sigh. 

“It’s just the hair.”

“I know.”

“And the tight tshirt.”

“I know.”

“And the leather jacket.”

Grantaire took his beer back and Courfeyrac signalled to the man at the bar to get a drink of his own. 

They and the rest of the Amis were in the student union bar, giving a speech on the importance of political awareness. Despite how younger people were often treated by the public, they still had a right to vote and theirs were just as important as the vote of any forty five year old man. That was the jist of what Enjolras was saying as he stood on the stage addressing the group of students who had come to see him, as well as those who had chosen the wrong night to go to the bar. Saying that though, it seemed Enjolras had managed to captivate his audience enough to keep them quiet, and Grantaire was sure he would take that as a small triumph. Grantaire, however, believed it was a triumph for the particularly tight white tshirt that Enjolras was wearing. It allowed the ‘captivated audience’ to make out every rise and fall of his chest and every twitch of perfectly formed muscle could be seen underneath all that cotton. Grantaire both worshipped and cursed that item of clothing. 

Courfeyrac, fresh beer in hand, followed Grantaire’s gaze and let out a similar sigh of longing.

“I see your tight tshirt and leather jacket and raise you a sweater vest and new Vans.”

Grantaire managed to find the strength to look away from Enjolras and search the crowd for Courfeyrac’s person in question. He found him where he expected, sitting at the table by the side of the stage on his laptop, giving out details and leaflets Grantaire had designed on the Amis and the topic in question. 

“I think leather jacket trumps sweater vest any day,” Grantaire said as he took a swig from his bottle. “I mean, what would you prefer? Combeferre in that sweater vest or Combeferre in that leather jacket?”

Courfeyrac considered the question carefully before answering.

“As sexy as leather jackets are,” he said, dragging the ‘r’ syllable out a little longer than necessary, “it wouldn’t suit ‘Ferre’s personality and so it would be wrong.” 

Grantaire couldn’t disagree with that.

Such conversations were not unusual for the pair. In fact, they had become more frequent as the days went on. It had started when Grantaire had noticed a familiar look in Courfeyrac’s eyes one night during a meeting with the Amis. Why they still called them meetings when really it was just an excuse for all the friends to hang out was beyond anyone who asked the question, but Grantaire suspected it was because it made them sound much more productive than they actually were. And Enjolras did try and keep the group focused, but even he yielded when the Twister board or Doctor Who box sets came out. 

At this particular Amis meeting, Combeferre was talking about getting involved in some charity or other that meant something to him and Courfeyrac had readily agreed to be involved with the fundraiser without actually knowing what it was. Grantaire had recognised the same half smile on Courfeyrac’s face as Combeferre talked, the same eagerness to please, the same lack of free will in his presence. He suffered the same reactions himself when he was within fifty metres of Enjolras. 

Eventually he had called Courfeyrac out on it, and Courfeyrac had admitted his crush with the persuasion of a bottle of wine. Together they had drowned their sorrows and complained about every little thing that their crush did that made their heart race. Since that night, they used each other as a soundboard to release the pent up emotions they had, often towards items of clothing or innocent habits that would drive them insane. 

“Where did that leather jacket come from anyway?” Courfeyrac asked. “I cannot see Enjolras wandering into a shop, picking it up off the hanger, and thinking ‘yes this will look damn good on me’.”

“Cosette bought it for Marius after watching Grease but it didn’t fit him so she gave it to Enjolras. When I saw him in it I may have blurted out ‘you cannot wear that thing,’ so of course now he wears it to spite and torture me.”

“Of all the things you could have said, _that_ is what you came out with?” 

Grantaire hung his head in his hands. 

“I know. He caught me unawares,” he added defensively. “If I had known I was about to walk in on him trying it on I would have come up with some snarky remark to ensure he never wore it again. But no, and now he wears it deliberately because he thinks I hate it.”

“I would have thought you’d be pleased. It _is_ as sexy as hell.”

Grantaire gave him a deadpan look. 

“Imagine Combeferre sitting next to you without a top on and his bare chest there in all its glory and being unable to touch it.” 

Courfeyrac, who had been lifting his beer bottle to his lips, froze as he let that image sink in. 

“ _That_ is why I hate that jacket.”

“That… that’s rough man.” He patted Grantaire on the back sympathetically. “I’d give anything to have that kind of power over Combeferre though. To have the ability to have him wear an item of clothing just because of something I said. You could have real fun with that.”

“Not when you have to hate the thing for him to do it,” Grantaire replied, turning away from the stage to face Courfeyrac properly. “To know he despises me that much. It…” He shook his head.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Courfeyrac said softly.

“We clash all the time,” Grantaire continued as though he hadn’t heard Courfeyrac speak. “It makes no sense that I have feelings for him.”

“Actually, I think it makes perfect sense,” Courfeyrac rebutted. “You keep each other on your toes - opposites attract, and all that. Combeferre and I aren’t different _enough_. He’s too good for the likes of me.”

“Are you kidding me?” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? He likes you! You just need to make the first move because, for the first time in your life, you have not flirted the pants off the guy you like!”

“I do not-” but Courfeyrac did not finish his sentence for he knew it would be a lie. In the history of Courfeyrac’s guide to wooing, the pattern would be as follows; Courfeyrac would like the look of somebody. He would flirt outrageously and obviously with said person until they agreed to go on a date with him. Said date would be just as outrageous and ridiculous, but more often than not it would do the trick and a second date would be agreed. 

But with Combeferre, because he was a friend and not just _some guy_ in a bar, Courfeyrac had done the complete opposite. He had retreated into himself, making no flirtatious remarks or unnecessary touches. In fact, the only change in him had been to be a better and more attentive friend. Had Grantaire not been suffering from the same affliction, he would not have suspected a thing. 

“You and Combeferre have infinitely more chance of getting together than Enjolras and I,” Grantaire said with finality. 

Courfeyrac sat up straight. Grantaire did not like the gleam in his eye as he slowly raised his finger in the air like an idea worthy of Einstein had just come to him. 

“Are you quite sure of that sir?” Courfeyrac asked in a mock posh accent.

“Indeed I am, my good fellow,” Grantaire replied in the same way.

“Then monsieur, I challenge you to a little wager. I bet you that I can make Enjolras kiss you before you can make Combeferre kiss me.”

“What? Courfeyrac that is ridic-”

“Fifty euros says I can do it before you can. Just think, if you win you have fifty euros. If you lose Enjolras has just kissed you. It’s win-win situation.”

Grantaire blinked twice.

“So what are the ground rules?”

Courfeyrac grinned. 

They huddled together as if they were plotting a master plan.

“We cannot tell anyone about the bet.” Courfeyrac pointed to his fingers as if he was counting each rule on them. “We must bring the other couple together by ourselves.”

“The kiss must be because the other person wants them. No dares or mistletoe kisses.”

“Deal,” Courfeyrac agreed. Grantaire stuck out his hand and Courfeyrac took it.

“Bring it on Tinkerbell,” Grantaire said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“You’re going down Peter Pan.”

They shook on it and the deal was struck.

~*~

Courfeyrac had a plan. An ingenious plan even if he did say so himself. It was a shame he couldn’t share it with anyone, for they surely would have commended him for his brilliance. But rules were rules and if he wanted to win that fifty euros, he would have to play it straight. 

It had taken him all of forty five minutes to come up with it and then a few days more to iron out the creases. He had dedicated a whole spiral notebook to the cause, well hidden under his mattress and full of various spider diagrams and bullet points. But once it was perfected he was itching to put it into motion. 

The first part of his plan was tricky and dangerous. But this was for the happiness of his friends so it was a worthy cause. Plus the money would be useful. And he couldn’t deny that there was a little bit of pride at stake too.

He and the rest of the Amis were making their way to Cosette’s flat, the one her father had bought her whilst she was at university. She shared it with Musichetta and Éponine. Roommates of the opposite sex were forbidden by her father. It was a good sized flat with a large living room and so was the flat of choice when the group wanted to meet up.  
The only others that didn’t live in student accommodation were Bossuet and Feuilly. Enjolras, Jehan, Combeferre, and Grantaire all lived in one student flat associated with the university and Courfeyrac, Marius, Joly, and Bahorel lived in another. They did meet at these flats too, but Cosette’s was always the favourite. 

The only downside to Cosette’s was that it was a fourth floor flat in a building with no lift, so they had a mountain to climb to get there. 

They were making the necessary trek as usual and Courfeyrac was talking animatedly about the most recent episode of some show the others refused to watch on principle. It was a reality TV show of the lives of Z-list celebrities. 

“I could not believe it,” he was saying, “I always thought it would be Kate that Danny would have the affair with, but _Veronica_? How could she do that whilst Rick is in hospital with appendicitis?!”

There was a groan from Enjolras’s direction. 

“Ugh, I cannot believe you watch that rubbish,” he said, disgusted. “You do realise it’s all staged right?”

“I refuse to believe that, not of my precious Rick.” He jogged up the next two steps so he could catch up with Grantaire and Joly who were ahead of him. “You’re on my side aren’t you Grantaire? I mean you did watch that episode with m-”

All at once the stairs came to an end but Courfeyrac did not seem to notice and kept going. When he attempted to tread on a step that was not there he lost his footing and stumbled backwards. He arms flailed in the air and he scrunched his eyes shut as he prepared himself for the impact. 

But it did not come.

He cracked open one eye carefully and saw Grantaire filling his line of vision. He opened both eyes fully and realised Grantaire was clutching onto his shirt around the neck and was stopping him from falling backwards down the stairs. He looked as shocked and startled as Courfeyrac felt. 

“Thanks,” he breathed, holding Grantaire’s gaze. Grantaire jerked Courfeyrac forward so that he was standing on his own two feet again and safely away from the edge of the stairway before letting go of him. 

“Idiot,” he muttered before turning around and walking away, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Only you, Courfeyrac,” said Joly, rolling his eyes and following Grantaire’s lead. 

Courfeyrac stared after them. He felt a hand on his shoulder, he turned and found himself face to face with Combeferre. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, giving Courfeyrac the once over. Courfeyrac’s heart melted. That wasn’t fair. He would have given anything for Combeferre to worry and care for him like this, but now was not the time. Knowing he was going to regret it later, Courfeyrac tore himself away from Combeferre’s touching concerns and instead looked at Grantaire questioningly. 

“Just fine,” he said.

He had remained in his pondering state for most of the evening in the hopes of someone noticing and asking him about it. But the group were used to his dramatics and knew that he would bring up what was bothering him regardless of whether they asked and so they would wait until he couldn’t stand being ignored any longer.

There was a film on in the background but no one was really watching it. Feuilly, Musichetta, and Bossuet were watching Bahorel play some game or other on his phone, Enjolras and Combeferre were deep in conversation, Cosette and Marius were keeping each other occupied, and Grantaire and Joly were trying to see how many bits of paper they could get into Jehan’s hair as he read his poetry book for class before he noticed. Éponine was sitting next to Courfeyrac and was about the only one actually paying attention to the film. 

“It’s funny,” Courfeyrac said out loud to nobody in particular. Éponine made a ‘hmm’ noise but he got no other response from his friends. “I said it’s funny,” he repeated a little louder so the group could not pretend they hadn’t heard him, “how a near death experience can make you see things differently.”

“Eating that week-out-of-date yoghurt was _not_ a near death experience Courfeyrac,” said Marius dubiously, “I told you it looked more like cheese.”

“Who ate out of date yoghurt?” squeaked Joly.

“I was sick for a week, it felt like I was dying,” said Courfeyrac defensively. He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Anyway that’s not what I am talking about. I’m talking about just now when I almost broke my neck.” 

“Idiot,” Grantaire said again as if the first time wasn’t enough.

“All I am saying is that it makes you see things differently. See _people_ differently. You realise things you didn’t before.”

“What things?” asked Jehan, mildly interested.

Courfeyrac caught Grantaire’s eye and ducked his eye shyly. 

“Oh, just things.” 

The mild interest Jehan had shown disappeared with a roll of the eyes. 

The room was silent for a moment as the group waited for Courfeyrac to elaborate. But he did not. Éponine, who was evidently fed up with this conversation, slapped her knees and stood up.

“Right, I’m starving, I am ordering pizza,” and she disappeared into the kitchen in search of the phone. 

“Wha - _what_?” Jehan exclaimed as he ran his fingers through his hair and found the torn up bits of paper Grantaire and Joly had been throwing at him. He glared at them and, not trusting them to not do it again the moment his back was turned, he claimed Éponine’s seat whilst she was out of the room.

“Here,” Courfeyrac chuckled as he helped Jehan pick out all the pieces that he couldn’t see. 

When Éponine returned to find her seat no longer empty, all she had to do was give Jehan a terrible look with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised for Jehan to shrink into his seat and slide down to the floor. She flashed him a dazzling smile and took her seat, ruffling his hair as she did so.

“Good boy.”

They watched another film in that position, this time with the addition of some much needed pizza. Fortunately Éponine had the foresight to order enough for everybody because no sooner had it arrived than fourteen hands groped for a slice. She also found some drinks in the kitchen and made a cocktail of them all. 

“God, Ep, are you trying to kill us?” coughed Joly as he took a sniff of the mysterious concoction. 

“I am just trying to liven you all up,” she said with dignity.

Only Enjolras and Bahorel passed on the drink, opting to stick with their water and beer instead.

It wasn’t long before the first signs of drunkenness started to show in the group. Jehan had already become much more tactile and Marius was permanently flushed. It was evident Éponine had planned this all along because out of nowhere she produced a familiar and much feared object.

“We’re playing spin the bottle people,” she declared, “come on, everyone in a circle on the floor!”

There were a few groans but they all slid off their seats and arranged themselves on the floor. 

“I don’t think so,” protested Enjolras. Éponine didn’t even look at him as she gripped him by the wrist and pulled him to the floor. 

“Bahorel, finish up so we can use your bottle,” she ordered. Bahorel chugged the rest of his beer and placed the bottle on its side in the centre of the slightly squashed circle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am going to spin the bottle to see who goes first and then we will go round clockwise from there.”

Éponine knelt forwards and spun the bottle with a twist of her wrist. It landed on Cosette. She leant forward and spun the bottle herself and everyone groaned when it landed on Marius.

“You cheated. I don’t know how, but you cheated,” said Courfeyrac suspiciously.

“It’s like the universe wants you to be as sappy as possible,” whined Musichetta. Cosette poked her tongue out.

“I can’t help what the fates decide. Now give me the spinner.”

The spinner was the object that Éponine had produced when she announced that they would be playing the game. It was taken from a game of Twister but the body parts had been changed from hands and feet to hand, foot, neck, and lips. 

Cosette got neck.

She pressed a soft kiss on Marius’s neck and then whispered something in his ear that made him flush scarlet. 

Bahorel cheered.

“Good old Cosette, always knows how to make it interesting.”

“Your turn Jehan,” Cosette said innocently as Marius cleared his throat and tried to hide his embarrassment. 

Jehan got Combeferre’s hand. He took it in his own and bowed into it like a Disney prince, brushing Combeferre’s knuckles with his lips. Jealousy flared up in Courfeyrac. Combeferre half smiled and bowed his head in return. 

Bahorel was next. He got Joly and lips. Poor Joly was chased around the flat until Bahorel caught him and planted the wettest, sloppiest kiss he could manage on his lips. 

“You are so revolting,” Joly said as he wiped the saliva off his face. Bahorel just winked at him. 

“My turn,” declared Grantaire and he enthusiastically reached out and gave the bottle a good spin. 

It landed on Enjolras.

Had Grantaire’s feelings been brand new information to the group, that moment would have been incredibly uncomfortable for them all. But Grantaire had been suffering with his affliction for longer than he dared to think about, and the others had known for almost as long, so when the bottle stopped pointing at the pouting man-child, nobody batted an eyelid. Nobody but Courfeyrac.

The group gave the obligatory ‘ooh’ like they always did and then Grantaire gave the twister spinner a flick. 

“Hand,” cried Éponine.

Grantaire shuffled forwards so that he could reach Enjolras and held his hand out expectantly. 

Enjolras looked uncomfortable. But then he always looked uncomfortable when they played this game, so it meant nothing. 

“At least it wasn’t feet, I suppose,” he sighed as he placed his hand in Grantaire’s waiting one. 

Grantaire gently kiss the palm of Enjolras’s hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth on his skin as he did so. He did not break eye contact with Enjolras as he did it and there was something so _intense_ about it all, Courfeyrac thought, and he was only the one watching! It must have been something else entirely for the one’s taking part. He wasn’t surprised when Enjolras drew a sharp breath when lips met skin. 

He didn’t mean to let out a squeak, but once it happened Courfeyrac could not deny it. Those close enough to hear turned to him, puzzled. As Grantaire pulled away and returned the hand to its rightful owner, he looked strangely at him. 

“Don’t worry Tinkerbell,” he said dryly, “it doesn’t count.”

Grantaire had never called Courfeyrac ‘Tinkerbell’ before, it was a spur of the moment thing the night of the bet, and so Courfeyrac knew it was _that_ that he was referring to. 

“Tinkerbell? Why did you call him Tinkerbell?”

“Not jealous are you Enjolras?” teased Courfeyrac, looking as smug as he could. “You are no longer the only one Grantaire has a nickname for.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

“It’s a kind of private joke,” he said as Enjolras opened and closed his mouth like an angry goldfish. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You are still my Apollo.” Grantaire shuffled back into his seat as Enjolras tsked. “What would have been so bad about my kissing your feet anyway?”

“Even with shoes on it’s not the most pleasant of body parts,” Enjolras grimaced. Grantaire shrugged.

“I wouldn’t mind kissing your feet,” he said like it was a sentence people said every day. “At least it wasn’t lips because then you would have had to kiss this horrible thing.” He gestured to the general area of his face. 

“Oh no I am not having any of that,” said Courfeyrac as he squashed Grantaire’s cheeks with the palms of his hands. “You are gorgeous no matter what Enjolras says. It is my turn and I _choose_ to kiss your lips.”

And before Grantaire could agree or disagree, Courfeyrac pecked the most delicate and loving kiss on his lips. 

“Curious,” Courfeyrac muttered with a half smile as he pulled away. 

Grantaire wriggled himself free hastily. 

“What the hell was that?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac saw that Enjolras was fuming. He raised a challenging eyebrow at him. 

“Of course I’d have no objection to kissing Grantaire on the lips or any other part of his body,” Enjolras said hotly. Courfeyrac did not need to see Grantaire to know he was blushing. 

Bahorel snorted involuntarily and everyone was staring at Enjolras in a ‘think-about-what-you-just-said’ kind of way. There was a beat as Enjolras evaluated the faces of his friends and replayed what he had just said in his head. When his face flushed Courfeyrac knew the penny had dropped. 

“No! That’s not what I-”

He puffed air loudly out of his nose like he was a dragon breathing fire and then got up and stormed off. 

Courfeyrac held back the grin he felt on his lips.

Operation win-this-bet was a-go.

~*~

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t one of Marius’s smartest moves to leave Courfeyrac with a key to his room when he had left for a lunch date with Cosette. Yes, Courfeyrac did genuinely need access to his printer whilst his own awaited the ink he ordered online, but leaving him with complete, unsupervised access to your bedroom can only result in snooping and meddling. He had already rearranged the bookshelf so that the books were in alphabetical order according to titles as opposed to authors, as Marius had previously organised it. He was at the point of doing the same with the DVDs, organising them in order of colours of the rainbow when the clearing of a throat made him jump. 

Enjolras, Combeferre, Grantaire, Bahorel, and Joly had been standing in the hallway watching him for god knows how long. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked surprisingly normally despite looking like a rabbit in the headlights. 

“Jehan forced us out,” said Enjolras with an eyebrow raised. “He’s got some big project to do and doesn’t need any distractions from his housemates.” It sounded like Enjolras was quoting the last part from Jehan himself. 

“I said they could crash here,” Joly added to finish off the explanation. 

“Oh right, okay, cool.” Courfeyrac’s audience continued to wait patiently, all arms folded and eyebrows pulled together. He sighed and gave in to their unasked questions.  
“Marius leant me his key so I could use his printer. I wasn’t _not_ going to snoop was I?” 

Grantaire shrugged. 

“Sounds good enough to me.” He pushed past Enjolras, who was standing in front of the others in the doorway, and joined Courfeyrac on the floor examining the CD collection. “Why am I not surprised Taylor Swift is in here?”

Bahorel joined them and Joly followed suit, the pair of them sitting on the bed and watching Courfeyrac and Grantaire leave non-existent reminders and appointments on Marius’s calendar. Only Enjolras and Combeferre remained on the threshold in the doorway. 

Bahorel leant over the bed and lifted the duvet to get a better look underneath.

“If you are looking for porn there isn’t any,” said Courfeyrac without looking away from what he was doing. 

“Damn,” said Bahorel. “I guess this _is_ Marius we are talking about.” He sat up and wiggled a little to get more comfortable on the bed. He paid no attention to the fact that he was pushing Joly closer and closer to the edge. 

“Are you just going to stand there disapprovingly all day or are you going to join us?” Grantaire glanced at Enjolras through his eyelashes and allowed the corner of his mouth to turn upward. Enjolras scowled. 

“Yes come on, it’s just a bit of fun!” Courfeyrac urged, draping his arm affectionately around Grantaire’s shoulders. Enjolras’s jaw locked. To everyone’s surprise, he strolled into the room, snatched the Sharpie from Grantaire’s hand, getting unnecessarily too close to do so and Courfeyrac was pretty sure Grantaire had stopped breathing, and wrote ‘chlamydia test results’ in bold letters on the square dated the nineteenth. Courfeyrac let out a cheer.

“Go Enjolras,” said Grantaire quietly with some surprise and just a hint admiration. The look he got in return was smug and challenging. Grantaire accepted the challenge with a twitch of his head. 

“Come on Combeferre,” he said, standing up and beckoning his friend, who had stepped reluctantly into the room. 

He opened the wardrobe and began to rifle through the clothes in there. There was a baseball cap on the top shelf and Grantaire forced it on top of his unruly curls. He then inspected himself in the mirror attached to the inside of the wardrobe door. “I prefer my beanies,” he commented, taking the hat off again and throwing it at Bahorel. “It’d suit you I think.” He grinned when Bahorel put it on and he was proved right. “Ooh I like this,” he said as he went back to noseying through the wardrobe. He pulled out a white shirt and green waistcoat complete with tie to match. He held it up to himself. “I’m going to try this on.” With that he slipped out of the room and returned a few minutes later dressed in Marius’s clothes. They were a bit big as Grantaire was shorter than Marius - who was the definition of ‘lanky’. He took a look at himself in the mirror. He heard a tsk from beside him as Combeferre gave him a shove so that they were face to face.

“Here,” he said, smoothing out the shirt and rolling up the sleeves to the elbows. He combed Grantaire’s hair with his fingers and straightened the wonky tie. “There.” He stepped back and admired his work.

Grantaire checked himself out again. Before, the smart shirt had clashed with the rest of his messy appearance. But thanks to a few tweaks from Combeferre, he actually looked quite good. He took a step back and opened his arms out wide, displaying himself to the others in the room. 

“What do you think?”

“Very nice,” nodded Bahorel in approval. Joly made an agreeable noise. Courfeyrac was smiling softly. Enjolras was silent, sitting with his mouth open slightly as his eyes raked over Grantaire’s body. 

“Green suits you,” said Courfeyrac dreamily. “Makes your eyes stand out. What do you think Enjolras?” 

Courfeyrac nudged Enjolras in the back. Enjolras whirled round and glared at him for it. 

“His eyes always look like that,” he frowned, like he genuinely didn’t understand what Courfeyrac was saying. 

“Like what?” asked Courfeyrac, glancing at Grantaire out of the corner of his eye. Grantaire had evidently become quite self-conscious as he picked at the skin around his nails and avoided looking at Enjolras whilst he gave his answer. 

Enjolras scowled again.

“Blue.” Bahorel snorted and Enjolras directed his death stare towards him. He then sought out Combeferre for assistance, but he just quirked one of his infamous eyebrows, amused. “They’ve always been that kind of blue,” he said defensively. He was struggling to explain himself to his friends. That was not something that happened very often and it infuriated him. 

“What kind of blue?” Courfeyrac pushed, trying not to look like he was enjoying this too much. 

“Bright blue. Like an ocean. No amount of clothing is going to make them shine any brighter.”

Bahorel couldn’t hold back any longer. He fell back onto the bed laughing. Joly was biting his lip to try and not succumb to the same fate. 

“I should probably get changed,” Grantaire mumbled, hiding his face with his hands by fiddling with his curls. 

“You’re right,” Courfeyrac said wistfully as Grantaire left the room, “he does have beautiful eyes.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to reply but quickly snapped it shut again. 

“Blue?” Combeferre said, bemused. Enjolras could honestly not see what was wrong with that description. Grantaire’s eyes were blue. Very blue. He had always thought so. When he had first met Grantaire it was the first thing he had noticed about him. He knew that people said certain colours and clothes made people’s eyes stand out but when you had eyes like Grantaire, it was physically impossible for them to shine any brighter. They were stars in themselves. He couldn’t be the only one who thought that, surely?

“What?” Enjolras said, getting frustrated now. Combeferre just huffed a laugh and shook his head, before jumping out of his skin when Grantaire returned, dressed in his own clothes once more. Combeferre had been leaning against the door frame and Grantaire had had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention so he could pass. 

Grantaire threw the now wrinkled clothes on the end of the bed and caught Bahorel’s gaze. 

“Oh don’t look upon me,” Bahorel teased, placing the back of his hand against his forehead and pretending to faint. “Your _beautiful_ eyes make me swoon!” Courfeyrac hit Bahorel in the chest, probably feeling the impact more than Bahorel did. 

“Who says I have beautiful eyes?” Grantaire grinned, looking between the faces in the room. He hovered over Enjolras a heartbeat longer than the others.

“Courfeyrac,” Bahorel laughed. 

“Shut up,” Courfeyrac said bashfully. Disappointment flashed across Grantaire’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a suspicion. He watched Courfeyrac, his eyes going narrow. A thought evidently coming to him, he returned, tongue in cheek, to the wardrobe, muttering to himself. 

“Now I’m sure I saw one in here… I’d imagine Cosette would have found him another one… yes!” he said triumphantly as he pulled out another item of clothing from Marius’s wardrobe. He thrust it into Combeferre’s arms. “Try this on.” Combeferre stared at it, then at Grantaire ,who was nodding incessantly, and then back at the item of clothing. Eventually he caved. 

“Oh all right.”

He took the item off its hanger and slipped his arms through the sleeves over his shirt. What Grantaire had handed him was a soft, black leather jacket. It was similar to the one Cosette had given Enjolras, but was a little bit bigger for it must have fitted Marius to still be in the wardrobe without the price tag. 

Combeferre did not look all that sure but Grantaire flashed him one of his winning smiles. 

“You look brilliant. What do you think Courf?” 

He had spoken so innocently, it was as if he didn’t know he had just broken one of his best friend’s minds. 

The sound that came out of Courfeyrac’s mouth was a sort of ‘nggh’, like he was having a bad nose bleed. He went to stand up, forgetting he was between a bed and a table, and caught his face on the corner of Marius’s desk. The crunch was audible and everyone in the room cringed. 

“I’m all right,” Courfeyrac said quickly, trying to cover up his embarrassment. But it was clear by the dribble of red liquid running down his lip that he was not. The metaphorical nose bleed had turned into a real one. He wiped the blood off with the back of his hand, smudging it across the right half of his face. Combeferre stepped forward. 

“Oh god Courf, you’re bleeding!” His eyes were wide with panic and worry. 

Joly, being the medical student of the group, was in his element and jumped into action.

“Pinch your nose,” he said firmly. He ushered Courfeyrac to the door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Combeferre had rushed on ahead to open the necessary doors and no doubt be as helpful as he could. They left for the bathroom down the hall.

The others just stared after them, not quite sure what had just happened. It was Grantaire who broke the silence. His deep, rippling laugh bellowed out as he doubled over and slapped his leg. Bahorel and Enjolras could do nothing but stare.

~*~

Grantaire should have expected it when Courfeyrac turned up on his doorstep that evening looking less than impressed. There was no trace of the bleeding nose from earlier, save a few specks of blood around the left nostril. 

“I hate you,” he said by way of a greeting, shoving a bottle of vodka into Grantaire’s chest and causing Grantaire to let out an ‘oomph.’ He did not wait to be invited in and pushed his way past Grantaire into the room. 

“I know what you’ve been doing,” Grantaire smirked as he shut the door and went to get some shot glasses out from the wardrobe where he kept them. He paused for a moment, put the shot glasses back and got out pint glasses instead. He poured a generous helping of the vodka into each and then sat on the floor opposite Courfeyrac, handing him a glass. “It’s not going to work.”

“I beg to differ,” Courfeyrac said indignantly. “I think it’s going pretty well so far.” 

Grantaire scoffed. 

“Right yes, so far you have managed to get Enjolras to admit he knows my eyes are blue. Forgive me if I don’t see that as much of a triumph.” 

Courfeyrac gave Grantaire a deadpan expression.

“Grantaire, what colour are Enjolras’s eyes?”

“Blue,” Grantaire replied confidently and without hesitation.

“And what colour are Combeferre’s eyes?”

Grantaire opened his mouth, frowned, shut his mouth and thought about it, and then tried again.

“Brown?” There was no doubt that that was a stab in the dark. Courfeyrac took a triumphant sip of alcohol. He hissed as the vodka burned his throat. Grantaire gave him a look that said ‘amateur’ and drank the alcohol like it was water.

“I think I just proved my point. And they are hazel, just so you know,” Courfeyrac added in a low voice, hiding a blush behind his glass. Grantaire pulled a face. 

“I hope you know I have no intention of playing along,” he said instead, changing the topic slightly. 

“As much as it would make my life easier, I didn’t expect you to, don’t worry.” A flash of relief crossed Grantaire’s face. Courfeyrac let out a laugh. “Bless poor Enjolras, he’s so confused.”

“Confused?” 

“He’s feeling all these emotions he’s never felt before and struggling to understand them.”

“And you’re going to help him with that, are you?” Grantaire asked dubiously.

“Eventually,” Courfeyrac shrugged lightly as Grantaire topped up their drinks. 

“Enjolras is not, and never will be, jealous of another man flirting with me. The only harm you are doing is to yourself and your relationship with Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac’s cheeky expression dropped. 

“Oh yeah thanks for today by the way,” he said sarcastically. “Seeing Combeferre in a leather jacket is _exactly_ what I need when I am supposed to be wooing you!”

Grantaire gave him a devilish grin. 

“You’re welcome.”

Courfeyrac took another gulp of vodka.

“So what’s your plan?” Courfeyrac asked. Grantaire frowned, not understanding. “How do you intend to get ‘Ferre and I together? You know my plan; it’s only fair that I know yours.”

Grantaire said nothing, tapping his nose with the end of this forefinger.

“That’s for me to know,” he said. 

“Bastard,” Courfeyrac muttered, downing the rest of his glass. 

They spent the rest of the evening drinking and venting to each other, falling asleep on the floor with the vodka bottle all but empty between them. 

When Courfeyrac’s phone alarm went off to tell him he had a lecture to go to the next morning, Grantaire had thrown a pillow at his head but made no other signs of life. Courfeyrac had been tempted to wake him up too, just so he didn’t have to suffer the hangover at such an ungodly hour alone, but considering he was the one who got them drunk in the first place he let Grantaire off.

He grabbed his things and tiptoed out of the door, shutting it as gently as he could behind him. He turned to leave. And froze. 

Enjolras was standing in his doorway staring at Courfeyrac with his mouth open. 

“Morning,” Courfeyrac said pleasantly. Enjolras continued to gape at him. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” he asked. And then the penny dropped. 

He was leaving Grantaire’s room.

Early in the morning.

In yesterday’s clothes.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he said quickly. He may have wanted to make Enjolras jealous, but sleeping with Grantaire was taking things a little too far. Although if the blush on Enjolras’s cheeks was anything to go by, it certainly helped matters. “I fell asleep on Grantaire’s floor, that’s all.”

“Oh,” was all Enjolras could say. The shock had subsided from his face somewhat. _Could there have possibly been a flash of relief?_ Courfeyrac thought as Enjolras ducked his head in embarrassment. 

“Honestly Enjolras, Grantaire doesn’t like me like that.” He readjusted the bag on his shoulder. “I’ve got a lecture to get to, I’ll see you later?”

“What?” Enjolras snapped his head up, still a little dazed. “Oh yeah, okay, bye.”

Courfeyrac had reached the end of the corridor when he heard Enjolras speak again. 

“Wait, what do you mean _Grantaire_ doesn’t like _you_ like that?”

Courfeyrac shut the door behind him without giving a reply. 

~*~

Courfeyrac knew what he wanted to do. It was unfortunate that Grantaire had been unwilling to play along, but it was not the end of the world. He had his ways and Grantaire would play his part whether he wanted to or not. 

His plan was simple. He was to take everything Enjolras didn’t know he treasured about Grantaire away from him, one by one. He had already planted the idea that he had a crush on Grantaire into everybody’s mind – he could see the way they all looked pityingly at him and questioningly at each other whenever he defended or complimented Grantaire in conversation, or when he made excuses to touch him. All he had to do now was unleash the monster of jealousy from Enjolras and he would have as good as won the bet. 

The first thing Courfeyrac took from Enjolras was only small. Grantaire had a thing for Enjolras’s hair. It was a well-established fact. He would find himself playing with it unconsciously whenever he got the chance. It had started when Enjolras had fallen asleep on the sofa, Grantaire had let his guard down whilst Enjolras was not conscious and started to wind the blonde curls around his finger. He had been blissfully unaware that Enjolras had woken up when he had sat down beside him, and only realised when he had stopped playing with the hair and Enjolras had asked him why he had stopped. 

“It’s soothing,” Enjolras had explained, not seeing how flushed and embarrassed Grantaire had looked. 

From that night, whenever he was close enough, Grantaire had played with Enjolras’s hair. It was only every now and again to start with, but then slowly it became more frequent to the point where Enjolras sitting on the floor in front of Grantaire was the understood invitation to play with his hair. 

They did all that without either of them being fully aware of how weird it was. 

And Courfeyrac was going to put a spanner in the works.

It was during one of their weekly meetings, in the communal room of Feuilly and Bossuet’s flat, that Courfeyrac took his opportunity. Grantaire was sitting cross-legged on the sofa talking to Éponine whilst the others were dotted about chatting in groups. Enjolras was standing in the middle of the room trying to get everyone’s attention.

“People,” he said with his voice raised so he could be heard over the crowd. The room fell silent with the respect that the Amis had for their leader. “Shall we commence this meeting?” Musichetta flopped on top of Bossuet, winding him a little as she kneed him in the chest. Everyone took their seats.

Courfeyrac sat down on the floor in front of Grantaire.

“Thank you,” said Enjolras. “In this meeting I wanted to talk to you about our next fundraiser.”

Everyone listened to Enjolras with the respect and adoration that they always did. He spoke so passionately about what he believed in, it was easy to get sucked into it. He could have you in the centre of a riot or the front of a protest; he made you believe. 

He spoke with as much fire as he would have done during one of the Amis’s big debates, despite being in a room full of friends who would have followed him anywhere should he ask them to.

But Courfeyrac did not let that distract him from his cause. He took it in steps, all planned out in his mind. 

First he played with his own hair, twisting and twirling his dark curls around his forefinger. His hair was not as long as Enjolras’s, and it was shaved at the sides, so he was flicking it more than anything, but he did the best with what he had. 

Next, he leant back and rested his head on Grantaire’s knee. Such close contact was not unusual for the group so nobody took any notice. For an instant Courfeyrac thought Combeferre was watching him, but when he did a double take, Combeferre was watching Enjolras with as much attention as anybody else. He decided he had been mistaken. 

He waited five, maybe ten minutes but Grantaire had still not played with his hair. So he pushed a little further, digging his skull into Grantaire’s knee so that it was sure to be uncomfortable. He felt Grantaire shift underneath him, lifting Courfeyrac’s head with his hand gently to move it into a more comfortable position. His hand remained there when he had done so. Courfeyrac tried to hide the smug grin he felt growing on his face as Grantaire’s fingers explored his hair. It felt quite nice actually; he understood why Enjolras liked it so much.

Enjolras had been in mid flow of a speech about the charity he wished to raise the money for when he had noticed. He had hesitated ever so slightly too long between sentences as his eyes met Courfeyrac’s. He had then shut his eyes and turned away, continuing as normal. But he lost focus more than once during the rest of his speech and Courfeyrac could see him getting more and more frustrated as he muddled his words.

“Grantaire,” he had barked towards the end of the meeting. Courfeyrac felt Grantaire freeze, his hand mid-massage on Courfeyrac’s scalp. 

“Yes Apollo,” Grantaire said in his most charming voice. Courfeyrac suspected he would have bowed had he been standing up. 

“You’ll design the posters and leaflets won’t you?”

Grantaire did bow this time, using Courfeyrac’s head as leverage.

“As you wish.”

There was an attempt at a smile on Enjolras’s part and a sharp nod. He then addressed Combeferre on something to do with the budget. 

“Do you think he’s ever seen The Princess Bride?” Courfeyrac asked Grantaire out of the corner of his mouth. Grantaire hit him with a cushion in reply.

~*~

The changes in Courfeyrac’s behaviour were subtle, but everyone noticed it. The quirky smiles, the gentle touches, and the reduction in teasing all sent Grantaire’s way. It was… eerie. Usually when a member of the group had a crush, playful mocking and jibes would ensue. But Courfeyrac’s feelings for Grantaire were so extraordinary and unexpected that no one was sure if they were real or if they were imagining things. It had become a taboo subject without anyone actually saying so. Nobody wanted to be the first to bring it up and so it went unsaid. 

“What’s wrong with Courfeyrac?” Enjolras had asked Combeferre one day after Courfeyrac had been particularly quiet sitting next to Grantaire during a meeting. Grantaire had been sketching each member of the group in his notepad. They did not talk, but sat in comfortable silence in each other’s company. 

“Nothing is _wrong_ with him,” had been Combeferre’s reply, although Enjolras did not miss the underlying ‘but something is _going on_ with him’. He also did not miss the twitch of a frown in Combeferre’s expression. It was a sign that he was concerned but unwilling to interfere. 

“He’s been acting differently,” Enjolras persisted, wanting to understand what the others had obviously grasped onto.

“Leave him be, he’s happy.” Combeferre got up, signifying the end of the conversation. Enjolras was left more confused than ever.

~*~

Grantaire was, for once in his life, actually early for the Amis meeting. He had had a lecture earlier in the day and not bothered to go home, instead making his way straight to Feuilly and Bossuet’s. He had taken a detour to the shops on the way to pick up art supplies for a project he was working on and so when he arrived he was carrying three bags of incredibly heavy paint and brushes.

“Thank fuck,” he said as he dropped the bags haphazardly on the floor and inspected his hands. They were red and throbbing from having to carry them up two flights of stairs. He rubbed his hands together in the hopes of relieving some of the stinging. It didn’t help much. 

He took a look around. The majority of the group were already there. He could see Éponine, Feuilly, Combeferre, Bahorel, and Joly. He could also make out voices coming from the kitchen. There was also a body hidden behind a laptop which Grantaire instantly recognised as Enjolras by the bright red jeans and black converse shoes. 

Combeferre caught his eye and so Grantaire opted to approach him. The fact that he was sitting beside Enjolras played no part in the making of this decision. Honestly.  
He went over and perched himself on the arm of the sofa, which unfortunately was not as comfortable as it looked. Enjolras was in the middle of a rant, Grantaire could tell by the way he was speaking rapidly and gesturing wildly with his hands. His face was ablaze with fury as he glared at his laptop screen. Enjolras did not do things by halves.

Combeferre shared a knowing look with Grantaire. 

“It’s just so typical,” he was saying, furiously clicking on his mouse pad. “It’s not like I have an unusual prescription. How could they get it wrong? And now I have to wait for them to sort it out.”

“What’s going on?” asked Grantaire. Enjolras peered over his laptop, apparently only just aware of Grantaire’s presence. He squinted in Grantaire’s general direction, and then grabbed something that was resting in his lap and slipped it on his face.

Grantaire caught his breath. He was staring but he couldn’t help it. He was pretty sure he’d start dribbling if he didn’t shut his gaping mouth soon. Enjolras was sitting before him with thick black rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. 

“The company I get my contact lenses from messed up my order,” he was saying, “So I have to wear these things,” he jabbed an angry finger at the item in question, “until they send the right ones.”

Grantaire had seen Enjolras in glasses before (they had also been the focus of many a late night fantasy in his bedroom), but Enjolras avoided wearing them as much as possible. He didn’t care about his appearance _per se_ ; what he hated was the attention they brought him. The wrong kind of attention. 

Grantaire was not the only person to fall victim to those specs. In one evening Enjolras had been chatted up by four strangers whilst he was trying to raise awareness for recent budget cuts to the education system. They would all start off pretending to be interested in the cause, but then the moment they mentioned ‘getting a drink to talk about this more’ or slipping him their number, he would shout at them for wasting his time and energy when there were people who potentially might actually be interested in what he was doing. And then of course his friends would never let him forget it. So he preferred not to wear the damn things if he could avoid it. His prescription wasn’t that strong, he could manage without them, but nobody liked walking around in a world where everything was blurry and smudged. 

Grantaire couldn’t stop staring. It was only when Enjolras’s eyes narrowed did he realise he was waiting for a reply. The pause was close to becoming an uncomfortable silence. 

“Courfeyrac!” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Enjolras’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, jumping a little at the urgency with which Grantaire spoke. “I need Courfeyrac, is he here?”

“Not yet,” Enjolras replied suspiciously. 

Grantaire dug out his phone from his pocket and walked out of earshot without an explanation, ignoring Enjolras’s questioning glances. He dialled Courfeyrac’s number.

“Hey Gr-”

“Where are you?” Grantaire interrupted rather desperately. 

“I’m at the top of the stairs now, why?”

Grantaire yanked the door open as Courfeyrac had his hand clenched and hovering in the air like he was about to knock. They stared at each other, both still holding their phones to their ears.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said in a low and breathless voice, “glasses.” Courfeyrac looked over Grantaire’s shoulder and understood.

“Fuck,” he said simply.

“Yeah.”

“Come on.” Courfeyrac took hold of Grantaire’s wrist and guided him to the kitchen. He said a quick hey to everyone as he passed. 

Marius and Cosette were sitting at the kitchen table and must have been the voices Grantaire had heard earlier. Cosette was talking intently about her lecture and Marius was fully engrossed with what she was saying. They did not notice, or at least they did not care, that they had company. 

Courfeyrac found this rather rude and decided something must be done about it. He took a deep breath and in his loudest voice shouted, 

“Feuilly, Marius and Cosette are having sex in your kitchen!”

Marius jumped out of his chair, his face burning bright red and horrified. He ran into the other room and immediately began protesting the accusation. Cosette only gave Courfeyrac an amused shake of the head as she went to find her boyfriend and calm him down. 

“That was mean,” Grantaire said with the least bit of concern. Courfeyrac shrugged as he rifled through the cupboards.

“It got rid of them didn’t it? Now, you have approximately three minutes to bitch to me about old four-eyes in there while I make us both a drink strong enough to get us through it.” He found some Malibu in the fridge and poured it into some glasses along with various fruit juices that he could find. 

“I don’t even have the energy to do that,” Grantaire sighed, rubbing his eyes with his hands roughly and dragging them through his hair. “I have to start planning this bloody art project and I already know it’s going to kill me.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t offer,” Courfeyrac said as he handed Grantaire a peachy coloured drink that smelled like a vegetable isle in the supermarket. Grantaire took a sip and winced.

“This is revolting,” he said, poking his tongue out in disgust. 

“Then drink it up quick,” Courfeyrac replied with dignity, enjoying his own concoction. Grantaire huffed a laugh and they continued to sip in companionable silence. 

~*~

“What do you think they are doing in there?” asked Enjolras a few minutes after Marius had come charging out of the kitchen to inform everyone that he had in fact _not_ got lucky that night. 

“It’s none of our business,” Combeferre replied, not taking his eyes of the papers Enjolras had handed him for his opinion and inspection. It listed the agenda for the evening and was already covered in red scrawl where Enjolras had made his own notes and adjustments.

“But-”

“Enjolras.” And there it was. That warning tone that had the power to put Enjolras in his place and stop him in his tracks. It was about the only thing that did so. “They are both grown men who can be alone together in the kitchen if they so please.”

“Courfeyrac? A grown man? Are you sure about that?”

Combeferre smiled but Enjolras did not miss the sadness there. It was the sign of the voice of reason fighting the voice of emotion. He was about to push Combeferre for an explanation when a thump and a crash interrupted his thoughts.

Bossuet had come stumbling through the door, tripping over some bags that had been left there.

“Ow fuck!” he exclaimed, rubbing his foot. Musichetta, who had followed him in through the front door, rolled her eyes without sympathy and made a bee line for Joly. “Who thought it would be a good idea to put three tubs of emulsion paint by the front door?” groaned Bossuet as he rummage through the bags to find out what he had kicked that could cause such pain. 

“That would be me.” Grantaire had appeared from the kitchen, Courfeyrac in tow. He approached Bossuet with a wry grin, patted him on the back as an apology, and moved his bags to a more out of the way corner. 

“Why the fuck have you got three tins of emulsion paint?” asked Bahorel. Grantaire groaned. 

“It’s for my art project. I‘ve got permission to paint my room. But I have to paint those god awful yellow walls white as a basecoat before I can start.” He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes at the very thought of it. “It’s going to be unbearable. I cannot stand blank canvases. You see how I doodle on any blank spaces. It’s a condition I have. The thought of being surrounded by four walls of blank canvas is going to be torturous.” He groaned again and flopped onto the love seat Éponine was hogging to herself. She gave an exaggerated ‘ugh’ and shuffled over to give Grantaire more room.

“I’ll give you a hand if you like,” said Courfeyrac. He had found an apple somewhere and was munching on it.

“Really? You’d help?” Grantaire looked at Courfeyrac like he was his saviour, something that made Enjolras irrationally angry.

“Of course, I’d do anything to help you,” Courfeyrac replied. Enjolras felt Combeferre stiffen beside him. He turned to look at him but Combeferre was just as passive and calm as ever. He wondered if he had imagined it. 

If he had continued to watch Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s interaction, he would have seen Grantaire’s eyes narrow. But he did not. All he heard was Grantaire say, “thanks Tinkerbell.” At the sound of that nickname, something inside him snapped. 

“We’ll help too,” he said, slapping Combeferre’s chest with the back of his hand to indicate who he had meant by the ‘we’. Combeferre let out an ‘oomph’ at the impact. 

“Will we?” he asked dubiously. Enjolras gave him a solid stare.

“We will.”

“I’ve got nothing better tomorrow afternoon,” shrugged Éponine as she flicked through a magazine she had found under her cushion when she had shuffled over to make room for Grantaire. 

“I’ll help too,” volunteered Jehan, “that’s if you’ve got enough paint brushes.”

Grantaire was astonished, like he couldn’t quite believe his friends were willing to help him, at least not without the use of blackmail. He positively beamed. It made Enjolras want to smile too. 

“Yeah, tomorrow afternoon is great. And I’ve got plenty of brushes and rollers, don’t worry. Thanks guys. Oh, but I need to run to the shops and get some sheets to cover my bed first. Hey Tinkerbell,” he said dryly, “fancy coming over early and giving me a lift?”

Enjolras watched as Grantaire and Courfeyrac stared at each other. There was definitely something going on between them, he was sure of it. He didn’t know what it was, but it made him angry and yet he couldn’t understand why. What difference was it to him if two of his friends were up to something? So long as it didn’t intrude in his life and affairs it shouldn’t bother him. So why did it? 

He balled his hands up into fists and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Sure,” Courfeyrac said after a particularly long pause. “Anything to help.”

Enjolras felt a shift in gravity and almost lost balance as Combeferre got up from where he was sitting beside him. Courfeyrac immediately took his place, tucking his feet underneath him as he had a nosey at what was on Enjolras’s computer screen. Enjolras felt the urge to hide it from him just to be spiteful, despite it only being his emails to the contact lenses company that had screwed up his order.

“Why are you pouting?” Courfeyrac asked, shutting the laptop Enjolras clearly wasn’t using anymore and putting it on the floor. Enjolras had gone back to watching Grantaire; he didn’t want to talk to Courfeyrac.

Combeferre had approached Grantaire and whispered something in his ear. Grantaire had nodded and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen. Enjolras wondered what they were up to. Was it ‘have a secret conversation with Grantaire in the kitchen’ day? 

“I’m not pouting,” he said when Grantaire was out of sight. Courfeyrac was smiling back at him, and it made him feel guilty for being angry. He told himself he was being silly. Courfeyrac had done nothing to cause such a reaction from him. He was one of his closest friends and he deserved better from him.

“You’re sulking,” Courfeyrac teased.

“I am not!”

Courfeyrac put his hands up defensively.

“All right, if you say so. Just saying, if you want to talk…” he left the sentence unfinished.

“Thanks,” Enjolras muttered bitterly. He didn’t take the offer. He couldn’t explain it to himself so how could he be expected to explain it to Courfeyrac?

Courfeyrac nudged him with his shoulder. Enjolras nudged him back playfully. He smiled in spite of himself. This was the teasing but supportive Courfeyrac he knew and loved. 

“It was good of you to offer to help Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said conversationally. Enjolras shrugged.

“You offered first.”

“Yes but I’m not busy trying to change the world one university at a time. I would have thought you’d be spending every hour you had getting your speech just right for that fundraiser coming up.” 

“You and Grantaire weren’t going to get it all done in one day by yourselves. I don’t mind.”

“Hmm,” Courfeyrac hummed. Enjolras gave him an enquiring look but he did not voice his thoughts.

“Did you give out those leaflets about our fundraiser?” Enjolras asked instead, wanting to change the subject.

“I did better than that. I got five people on my course to do it for me, along with their word that they would come with friends to your next speech.”

This pleased Enjolras. New faces meant more people talking about the group which meant more possible donations. Their message was slowly beginning to spread. The last speech Enjolras had done at the SU bar had brought a lot more new faces. There were at least thirty people who had come to see him and a good number were people Enjolras had not seen before. Courfeyrac had a talent of drawing people in, of connecting with anyone and setting them at ease. He had a way of making you feel like you had been friends forever, and then he would casually bring up the Amis, get you interested, and before you know it you’ve promised to hand out leaflets and come to the next public meeting. 

To tell the truth, Enjolras was slightly jealous of Courfeyrac’s people skills; he himself didn’t always find it easy to know the best way to deal with certain people. He was very - not narrow minded, but… focused. When he concentrated on one thing he sometimes found it difficult to remember or understand that not everyone’s lives revolved around that thing and he couldn’t expect them to be there to help him with it whenever he needed it. That was why it was so handy to have Courfeyrac in the group. He would draw people in, Enjolras would rile people up with his passionate speeches, and Combeferre would back him up with the figures and organise the events Enjolras would visualise. The other members were more in the background, helping as and when they were needed, gathering intel, offering ideas and opinions, and generally spreading the word. They were, each in their own way, vital. 

“Can we get this meeting started?” came Cosette’s voice over the mumblings of everybody else but not being directed to anyone in particular. “Only, Doctor Who is on at eight and I’d rather not miss it.”

Everybody found a seat either on a sofa or the floor. Enjolras had noticed Combeferre and Grantaire emerge from the kitchen. Combeferre looked rather pale and puzzled, his gaze directed at Courfeyrac, who was talking to Bahorel. Bahorel was sitting on the arm of the sofa beside him showing Courfeyrac a series of bruises on his left hand. Enjolras wasn’t sure he wanted to know how they got there. 

Grantaire’s expression was even more curious. It was the kind of innocent expression that said he was definitely up to something. Of what though, Enjolras could not work out.

~*~

It was a group effort as they cleared Grantaire’s room of as much furniture and junk as possible. Anything that could be moved save the bed and a suitcase of clothes was dumped in the communal living room, much to the housemates’ dismay. But Grantaire had insisted it wouldn’t be forever and it wasn’t like there weren’t other living rooms they could use anyway. Combeferre had been quite happy to allow Grantaire the space for a short while and Jehan was bribed with two packets of Oreos and a tub of cookie dough ice cream. Enjolras put up a fight, but when the others gave in, he had no choice but to accept defeat.

Having made as much space as possible in Grantaire’s room, and covering what was left in a plastic sheet to protect it from any splash back, the painting could begin. As promised, all those who had volunteered had turned up, some more appropriately dressed than others. 

“I cannot believe you are wearing one-hundred-euro jeans for this,” Éponine said as Courfeyrac gave a model pose and checked himself out. 

“I thought the paint drops might jazz it up a little,” he said defensively.

“Idiot,” had been Éponine’s reply. 

They had started off quite well. There were six of them, so there was enough space for them to start in their own corner, or in the middle of the two longer walls in Combeferre and Jehan’s case, and work their way around. Grantaire had given them a roller and a paintbrush each and showed them how to work around the skirting board, light switches, and plugs, leaving a smooth neat finish. “Don’t worry Apollo, you’re patch doesn’t have anything like that,” Grantaire grinned. Enjolras huffed and stuck his nose up in the air with dignity. He was secretly relieved though, holding a paintbrush was enough of a new and dangerous experience for him, anything more technical would have only ended in disaster. 

It was two people to a paint tray, and it wasn’t long before the two shorter walls were done. It was of course at that point that Grantaire began to complain. 

“It’s horrible,” he cried, throwing his arms up in the air and grimacing at the walls. He glared at them, as if giving them evils would be enough to shame the walls into becoming more attractive to him. 

“What’s your problem?” asked Éponine as she rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing white emulsion paint across her skin and in her full black fringe. 

“My fingers are itching to paint _something_ on these horrible bare walls. The white blankness is hurting my eyes. Let me just get some spray paints from my bag in the living room and I can-”

A hand on his chest prevented him from getting any closer to the door. 

“Not so fast mister, this is exactly why we are here.” Éponine gave him a light push and he stumbled backwards. 

“One wall,” he bargained, “let me do one wall.”

“No.”

“Oh come on! I _need_ to do it. What kind of friends don’t help a friend in need?”

“One’s that won’t let you ruin your art project before you’ve even started it,” replied Éponine curtly. Grantaire pressed his face into his hands and started mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like colourful cursing.

“Oh for goodness sake,” said Courfeyrac, rolling his eyes. “If you are going to be a big baby, here.”

And then, to everyone’s surprise, he took off his tshirt and gestured to his bear and completely exposed chest. There was a clatter in the corner of the room as Combeferre scrambled to pick up the paint brush he had just dropped. Everybody was staring at Courfeyrac. “Get those face paints we used on Halloween and paint something on me. That way your painting something but it’s not on the walls you so desperately need to keep blank.”

Grantaire blinked twice and then pulled a face.

“That’s… actually not such a bad idea,” he said approvingly. “Give me two seconds.”

Grantaire disappeared out of the room and returned a few moments later with a packet of face paints, a few small brushes, and a cup of water. He beckoned Courfeyrac to the bed. Following Grantaire’s instructions accordingly, Courfeyrac laid on top of the plastic sheet covered bed with one arm cushioning his head and the other at his side. Grantaire sat at his feet and wet the thinnest brush with the water.

“And why exactly should we paint your walls if you two aren’t going to help?” Éponine folded her arms across her chest. Grantaire gave her his best puppy dog eyes. 

“Because I need the distraction. Look how close I am to ruining the nice white walls you’ve just spent the afternoon doing.” He held his face paint covered brush dangerously close the wall and pretended he could not pull away, dramatically miming that the wall was somehow pulling him in like a magnet and no matter how hard he tried, it was only a matter time before he lost the fight. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Éponine sighed as she returned to painting around a plug socket. Grantaire flashed her a grin and then turned back to Courfeyrac on the bed. 

“I want something cool. Something that reflects me and my personality.”

A smile tugged at Grantaire’s lips. 

“I know just the thing.” 

And he set to work.

Something was bubbling inside Enjolras’s chest. It was that irrational anger from before, but it was much stronger this time. He could feel all his muscles had tensed up and he was grinding his teeth together like he was finding something difficult to chew. He had the temptation to pour the emulsion paint over Courfeyrac’s head. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more keen he was to do it. But again that small voice of reason told him Courfeyrac was doing nothing wrong and that it was him with the problem. 

“This is weird right?” he asked Combeferre in a hushed tone so that no one else heard. “I mean, I know I don’t always have the social skills of a puppy and I’m not overly affectionate, but this isn’t normal is it?”

Combeferre did not take his eyes off the wall and Enjolras had a feeling it was a deliberate choice. 

“Grantaire and Courfeyrac are close,” he said to Enjolras, “and nothing is normal by Courfeyrac’s standards. It’s none of our business. Leave them be.”

And there it was, that same line again. ‘It’s none of our business.’ Combeferre had said that the day before when Grantaire and Courfeyrac had been hiding out in the kitchen. Enjolras couldn’t help but think it _was_ their business. If two of his friend were acting strangely then surely he has every right to be concerned. And it was Combeferre too. Normally he would be first in line to help friends in need, especially when they didn’t know how to ask for it. Why was he being so dismissive now?

Enjolras couldn’t help but look at the pair again. Grantaire was painting with such concentration that Enjolras wished he could see more of his art. His serious art, not doodles like this. He was always so secretive and shy about it, which Enjolras didn’t understand because, by going on what he _had_ seen, Grantaire was one hell of an artist. 

Grantaire had his tongue poking out as he dragged the paint brush up Courfeyrac’s chest until it came to rest over his heart. Enjolras wondered what it felt like. 

And then Courfeyrac giggled. The kind of giggle you’d let out involuntarily when you had been tickled. It was then that Enjolras saw his expression. Courfeyrac was watching Grantaire with a look that could only be descried as pure, unadulterated adoration. The urge to throw paint over them returned to Enjolras.

“Poor Courfeyrac,” Enjolras heard Jehan say to Éponine in a whisper. Not knowing why, Enjolras went back to painting but continued to eavesdrop on what they were saying. “Doesn’t he realise he has no chance? It’s a shame really.”

“I feel like I should talk to him. I do understand after all,” Éponine replied. “But then again I’m still not sure if we’re just seeing things.”

“Leave him be,” Jehan said finally as he patted Éponine on the shoulder. “We can step in if it is necessary. It might not even come to that.”

It was another hour before the final patch of yellow was covered and Grantaire’s room had been turned successfully into a blank canvas. 

“We’re done,” cried Jehan with relief, twisting a sore arm around in its socket to stretch it out. 

“And so are we,” declared Grantaire as he put down his paint brush and helped Courfeyrac to his feet. Everyone stared at Courfeyrac’s now elegantly decorated chest. Courfeyrac was the only one to throw his head back and laugh. 

On his chest was a perfectly captured pin-up girl dressed in a Tinkerbell costume.

~*~

Enjolras had Thursday afternoons free. He would go to two lectures in the morning and then come back home in search for food and a bed. It was his routine. 

He also knew that Jehan had the same time free, as he would see him sometimes in the kitchen or living room and they would chat.

On one such an occasion, Enjolras had returned home to the sound of music coming from the communal living room. He went to investigate and found Jehan strumming his guitar – the acoustic kind, not that electronic rubbish – on the sofa. He looked up and smiled as Enjolras joined him but he did not stop playing. 

Enjolras watched him for some time. It was calming music, it relaxed him. It was nice not to think about anything except how Jehan’s fingers tapped and plucked at those strings. 

On the coffee table in front of them, the one covered in scruff marks from where certain members of the group would put their feet up with their shoes on much to Enjolras’s annoyance, was a large bag of hot chilli Doritos. Enjolras’s stomach chose that moment to roar. He took a handful, knowing Jehan wouldn’t mind, and munched on them as Jehan played. He was hungry, he hadn’t eaten all day, so when he finished his handful, he took a few more. The third time he didn’t bother to take out a few, he just grabbed the whole bag instead. 

“Okay no I am not having that,” scoffed Jehan. He stopped playing abruptly and snatched the crisp packet out of Enjolras’s lap. Enjolras whimpered. Jehan shove his guitar into Enjolras’s arms and Enjolras took it as a reflex more than anything. 

“How about _you_ play the guitar and _I’ll_ eat the crisps.” He ate a whole Dorito in one, making the action far too obscene for what it was. 

“I can’t play,” Enjolras replied, trying and failing to nick another crisp. “I don’t know how.”

“I can teach you if you like,” Jehan offered eagerly, bouncing in his seat.

“I don’t know…”

“Come on it’ll be fun. I can reward you with crisps.”

“I am not a dog in training Jehan,” said Enjolras disapprovingly.

“No but you are a hungry Enjolras. Come on, it’s not difficult.”

And that was how Enjolras started to learn the guitar. At first, as shameful as it was to admit it, he had only agreed for the crisps. In his defence, he was _very_ hungry and they tasted so damn _good_. But as time went on, he found he quite enjoyed his lessons. It took a lot of practise. He certainly did not have a natural flare for it. But he tried. It was a challenge and Enjolras, being Enjolras, was not one to give up until he succeeded. And he was improving. He was learning actual songs now rather than just the chords or techniques. 

He had been learning to play ‘The Only Exception’ by Paramore recently. It was getting there but it wasn’t perfect. Jehan had spent the last lesson helping Enjolras with the bridge of the song. Enjolras struggled with the quick change between chords, his fingers couldn’t keep up. Jehan had tried his best but it was four o’clock and the group were about to arrive for a horror film night, and Jehan wanted to wash and plait his golden hair before they arrived. He had left Enjolras alone in the living room. With nothing to do but wait for the others, Enjolras attempted to play the song again. He concentrated hard during the first verse, determined to at least get that right, and prepared himself to do the same with the chorus.

“You are the only exception, you are-”

Enjolras jerked his head up, his fingers hovering over the strings of his guitar. Grantaire was leaning against the doorway smiling fondly at him. He felt himself blush.

“Why have you stopped playing?” he asked. He came in and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa to Enjolras, leaving as much space between them as he could. 

“I didn’t realise you were there,” Enjolras replied lamely. Grantaire was holding a mug of steaming hot liquid - coffee by the smell of it. He blew the surface and took a sip. The way he quickly pulled away told Enjolras it was still too hot to drink. 

“Paramore?” Grantaire asked bemused. Enjolras pulled a face at his raised eyebrow.

“Jehan is my teacher,” he said by way of an explanation. Grantaire gave a low chuckle and sipped his coffee once more. He rested the cup in his lap and then nodded his head in  
Enjolras’s direction. Enjolras understood what he wasn’t saying. He adjusted the guitar in his lap and started playing from the top. Again Grantaire provided the words. 

“When I was younger I saw my daddy cry and curse at the wind…”

Grantaire could sing, Enjolras knew that. Drunken karaoke nights would be forever engraved into his memory thanks to Bahorel’s scarring rendition of ‘Roxanne’ by The Police. Grantaire’s turns with the microphone were enough to prove that even off his head with alcohol he was capable of holding a note. 

“You are the only exception…”

But this was different. He wasn’t just singing the song, he was _performing_ it. It was angelic and vulnerable and _beautiful_. He was beautiful. 

“Maybe I know somewhere deep in my soul that love never lasts…”

He wasn’t watching Enjolras play, and Enjolras was grateful for that. Trying to get each note right was hard enough, he didn’t need the extra pressure of someone watching him. Still, it helped having Grantaire to follow and keep the pace. 

“You are the only exception...”

Enjolras hissed as he fumbled over his fingers and lost his rhythm. He cursed. 

“Sorry,” he said to Grantaire. He felt guilty ruining his solo. “I mess up that bit every time.” It had been his Achilles’ heel of the song. He just couldn’t get his fingers to change position fast enough and he’d lose himself. 

“It’s probably because of the way you are holding the guitar,” Grantaire said knowingly. And that was when Enjolras remembered that Grantaire played the guitar as well as a lot of other instruments. If playing poorly wasn’t humiliating enough, he was making a fool of himself in front of an expert. 

Grantaire put his coffee on the table and shifted over in his seat so that he could reach Enjolras. He raised his arms questioningly. 

“May I?”

Enjolras nodded. Grantaire gave him a brief reassuring smile and then reached round so that his body was pressed up against Enjolras’s back and his hands overlaid Enjolras’s own on the instrument. 

Enjolras’s breathing rapidly increased. He was acutely aware of how close Grantaire was. An unnecessary amount of their bodies were in contact and yet he didn’t seem to mind. Yearned for more, in fact. Grantaire’s breath tickled his neck and he felt goosebumps prickle up his arms. 

“You’re too stiff,” Grantaire was saying and Enjolras felt himself blush again. “Loosen your wrists.” 

Grantaire gently tugged at Enjolras’s left wrist and Enjolras forced himself to pay attention and stop counting the number of eyelashes Grantaire had. He had nice eyelashes. Thick, full, black, curled upwards to frame those eyes beautifully. Enjolras had always liked those eyes. 

“Better,” Grantaire said approvingly. “You need to sit up straighter too.” He put his hand on the small of Enjolras’s back. Enjolras supressed a shiver as he felt Grantaire push gently, forcing him to arch his back. “That’s it.” Grantaire retracted his arms but stayed sitting close so that their knees were still touching. “Now try.”

For a split second Enjolras could not for the life of him remember what he was supposed to be playing. He shook his head and it came to him and he started playing. He had to start from the beginning again because he wasn’t comfortable to begin halfway through just yet. 

When Grantaire started singing along Enjolras did not mind. 

It was a messy duet, particularly on Enjolras’s part. He was far from perfect, fumbling every now and again and losing pace. But Grantaire was patient with him. He did not mock his mistakes or scold him for ruining his flow. He would just stop singing and wait until Enjolras found himself again and they would pick up from where they had left off. 

It was a nice change from Jehan’s teaching methods. You’d think it physically pained him to see the instrument being tortured by the way he dived at Enjolras every time he made a mistake. The wrong chord had him gritting his teeth and Enjolras was sure his Jehan had come close to snatching the guitar and banning Enjolras from ever touching it again during his first few lessons. Not that he was horrible; he did his best with a student that lacked any kind of musical ability. The fact that he had got this far was a miracle. Enjolras was glad he had persevered too; he enjoyed the lessons, and they took his mind of the insanity that was his life. It was an escape.

“You’ve improved from last week. Have you been practising?”

Enjolras felt the colour drain from his face as he let out a meek “what?”

Grantaire’s eyes bulged and his cheeks flared red. 

“Oh god I am so sorry,” he spluttered, “it’s just I’m here every Thursday and I can hear you playing from my room. I don’t eavesdrop or anything. I just can’t _not_ hear you, you know?”

They stared at each other, both embarrassed for different reasons. 

“Oh,” Enjolras squeaked. “I didn’t realise you had Thursday afternoons free.”

“My boxing lessons were moved to Tuesdays as my coach changed his hours,” Grantaire shrugged. “Which was a nuisance because it meant I had to go to the Wednesday fencing class instead of the Tuesday with all the _novices_.” He said the last word like it tasted something foul in his mouth. “And _that_ meant I had to give up my job at the charity shop. I was only a volunteer but they needed me, you know?”

Enjolras vaguely knew Grantaire did all those things, but to hear them all at once had him thinking just how amazing Grantaire really was. To play two physically and mentally challenging sports as well as do volunteer work on top of all his studies was insane. He was an art student too, which meant he was expected to do _a lot_ of work outside of lectures. _And_ be a member of the Amis, _and_ play all those instruments _and_ have a social life. It was a wonder he had the time for friends let alone duets with a sorry excuse of a musician. Enjolras admired him. 

“Could you not volunteer on another day?” he asked. “What about Thursday afternoons?”

“Don’t want me listening in on your lessons, Enjolras?” teased Grantaire. He bumped shoulders with Enjolras and grinned at his hands. “I have a project deadline coming up so I thought I’d make the most of any time I can get. I can always reapply next term. I’ve been doing yoga to your playing actually.” He looked proud of this fact. 

“You’re amazing,” Enjolras blurted out. He had only meant to think it but apparently his lips thought otherwise. 

“What?” Grantaire was staring at him. It seemed he couldn’t settle on an expression. He went from surprised, to shocked, to confused, to embarrassed, to strained, to disbelief, and then back to confused.

“With all that you do,” Enjolras tried to explain. “You do so much. You are the most interesting person I know.”

“You got me wrong Apollo,” Grantaire laughed nervously. He picked at the threads of his jeans, his coffee cold and long forgotten. 

“I am never wrong,” Enjolras said stubbornly. “You are pretty damn special.”

Grantaire was staring at his knees but the smile he was giving could have lit up the whole room. He was so beautiful when he smiled, Enjolras thought. He wondered why he had never seen Grantaire like this before. They had known each other for so long and yet he had never really considered him like this before. Aside from their bickering, normal conversations with Grantaire were… nice. They made him feel warm and cosy, like this was where he was supposed to be. 

“Woodyewlitojimsmtym.”

“What?”

Grantaire took a breath and tried again.

“Would you like to jam sometime? Maybe, when you feel comfortable enough to play with another person. I’d like to play with you, I don’t mind what. Guitar, piano, flute if you wanted me to. Or I could sing. I could tell it helped you to follow my lead.” He was babbling now, panicking a little bit. “That’s if you wanted to at all. I mean, it’s fine if you don’t. It may not be your thing but the offer is there if you’d like.”

“Grantaire, Grantaire!” Enjolras put his hand on Grantaire’s knee to get his attention. Grantaire froze, his big blue eyes wide with expectation and worry. “I’d like that.”

Grantaire blinked twice. 

“Great.”

Enjolras gave Grantaire a rare soft smile and Grantaire caught his breath. 

“So we’re doing it then? Jamming I mean.” Grantaire’s dilated pupils darted from Enjolras’s eyes to his mouth and Enjolras felt the urge to lick his lips. 

“Can’t wait,” Enjolras replied and when did Grantaire get so close? He could feel Grantaire’s breath on his cheek. It smelled like coffee. 

He was getting closer, why wasn’t he pulling away? The hand he had on Grantaire’s knee slid up to his waist. His head tilted sideways of its own accord and all Enjolras could think was Grantaire’s eyes, Grantaire’s hair, Grantaire’s skin, Grantaire’s lips, Grantaire’s hips. 

They were so close now. He only had to edge forward that little bit further and…

“What’s this I hear about a jamming session?”

They sprang apart as Courfeyrac stuck his head between them and threw his arms around their necks. 

“That’s a great idea,” he was saying, either unaware or ignoring the response to his presence. “A group jamming session. Only hilarity can ensue. Brilliant idea!”

He, Feuilly, and Bahorel had just come in and were oblivious of what they had just interrupted. 

What had they interrupted? Enjolras asked himself. He was afraid of the answer to that question. He extracted himself from Courfeyrac’s hold with more force than strictly necessary. He shot up and backed away, panic rising in his stomach. He was not proud of himself when his body took over. He ran.

~*~

If looks could kill, Courfeyrac would have been dead ten times over in that moment. Grantaire was not a violent person, but the white hot rage that was pumping through his veins had him the closest he had ever come to punching one of his friends in the face. 

“What the _hell_ do you think you are playing at?” he growled in a low voice. His jaw was clenched and his teeth gritted. His shaking fists balled firmly up at his sides. 

“I am saving you from making a terrible mistake,” said Courfeyrac gravely. This only infuriated Grantaire more. He grabbed Courfeyrac by the scruff of his neck and yanked him so close that their noses were almost touching. Courfeyrac was behind the sofa and so had trouble keeping his balance with how far Grantaire had pulled him over.

Bahorel and Feuilly had been chatting on the other sofa but had been silenced by Grantaire’s behaviour. 

“And what mistake might that have been hmm?” Grantaire snarled. “Because I am fairly certain Enjolras and I were about to kiss and that doesn’t sound like a mistake to me. And that would have meant you would have won the bet, so the only one making a mistake here is you.”

“Er… Courf?” came Feuilly’s uncertain and concerned voice. Courfeyrac waved a hand in the air and made an attempt to shake his head. 

“It’s fine. Could you give us a minute?”

Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged glances but eventually they left the room. 

“He’s not _ready_ , Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said once they were out of earshot. “If you had kissed him you would have frightened him away. And seeing you two together is more important to me than some stupid bet,” he added, hurt that Grantaire could think otherwise. 

Grantaire’s heavy breathing calmed a little and he let Courfeyrac go.

Courfeyrac straightened his clothes. He then crossed his arms and leant them on the back of the sofa, resting his chin in the middle. 

“I just didn’t want you to scare him away.”

“Right, because Enjolras didn’t look scared to you,” Grantaire said bitterly. “He practically _ran_ away because of you.”

“He wasn’t ready,” Courfeyrac pleaded for Grantaire to see, to understand. “He doesn’t realise he likes you yet.”

“I could have made him realise,” Grantaire mumbled. 

“If you had kissed him, it would have only confused him further. And then he would have gone into full denial and shut you out completely. Let him get there first. It won’t be long now. Be patient.”

Grantaire’s tensed muscles relaxed slowly and then all at once he slumped in his seat. He gave a spiteful chuckle.

“Well it’s not like I can switch these feelings off,” he said. “I’d wait an eternity if he asked me to” He threw his head back and shut his eyes. He was so tired. He felt Courfeyrac pat his shoulder. 

“Not forever, just a few more weeks. I promise.”

~*~

“Coming, _coming_ ,” came Combeferre’s voice. But he was not coming fast enough for Enjolras’s liking, so he continued to slam his fist against his bedroom door repeatedly until it swung open. 

Enjolras’s feet hadn’t taken him far, only down the corridor to the bedroom of his best friend. He needed the calm and ordered presence of Combeferre to help him control the whirlwind that was going on in his mind. He felt nauseous. His heart was beating at an alarming rate and he couldn’t breathe. He was dizzy and unstable and he _really needed Combeferre_.

He thumped the door again urgently and finally it opened. 

“Yes I know we said four for the film but I needed to – _Jesus_ Enjolras!” 

Enjolras had staggered forward and collapsed against Combeferre, resting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder and letting out a frustrated groan. He allowed Combeferre to catch him as he lost all his energy and will power to stand up by himself. Combeferre led him to his bed and sat him down. Enjolras did not fight him. Just having Combeferre beside him was enough; he could feel his mind clearing like a fog dissipating thanks to a strong wind. 

“What can I do?” 

Good Combeferre, kind Combeferre, Enjolras thought. He knew better than to suggest help or a doctor, he would give you what you needed without the fuss or worry. Enjolras gave him a weak smile. 

“Nothing.” He huffed a laugh in spite of himself. He was being melodramatic and he knew it. 

Combeferre did not push him and Enjolras was thankful for that. Instead Combeferre took a seat in his desk chair and faced Enjolras. He watched him carefully, his arms folded across his chest, but he did not speak. He gave Enjolras the silence to hear himself think but he stayed so that he was there should Enjolras change his mind and wish to talk. Enjolras found it reassuring and once again he was thankful to have found a friend like Combeferre. 

He shut his eyes. It helped him think, gave the voice in his head the chance to speak without distractions or interruption. Obviously he had had a momentary lapse of sanity. He had been working too hard, he was putting a lot of time and energy into this fundraiser and it had left him tired and edgy. He was having a quiet, calm afternoon in and Courfeyrac had made him jump, that was all. He hadn’t expected anyone to shout in his ear like that and it had taken him by surprise. He didn’t like being taken by surprise and so that explained why he was angry and his heart was beating so fast. Yes, that must have been it. 

And yet there was an aching in his chest that he could not place. An emptiness. Half a sentence… _what if_? But it was a sentence he could not finish. It was like having a word on the tip of your tongue but not quite being able to remember it. There was something missing in his life, he was feeling it more and more now, but what it was eluded him. It was an idea that floated in the air like a falling leaf and Enjolras couldn’t grasp onto it. Eventually, though, it would reach the ground and then Enjolras would pounce on it like a cat and never let it go. It would come to him, he had to believe that, and until then there was nothing he could do.

“Come on losers or we are starting without you,” Éponine yelled from the hallway. Enjolras opened his eyes and gave an amused smile. 

“Come on they’re waiting for us,” he said as he stood up and rubbed his eyes. Combeferre patted him on the back. He followed Enjolras out. _I must look better_ , Enjolras thought, _if Combeferre isn’t trying to get me to stay_.

During the time that Enjolras had spent in Combeferre’s room everyone had arrived. Their small living room was now full of people all squashed up against each other. It also didn’t help that Grantaire still had half of his things in there whilst he worked on his project. There were no more seats so Enjolras debated which spot on the floor would be the comfiest. He caught Grantaire’s eye. Grantaire looked very pale and almost nervous as Enjolras approached him. 

“Can I sit here?” Enjolras asked, gesturing to the patch of floor in front of Grantaire. Surprise and relief flashed across Grantaire’s face. 

“Um, yeah sure.” He tucked his feet underneath himself so that there was more space for Enjolras to sit. Enjolras smiled him a thanks and sat down. He had to adjust himself once or twice because Grantaire’s knee was digging into his back but eventually he got comfortable and settled down. 

It wasn’t long before he felt the familiar sensation of Grantaire exploring his locks of hair. Gently he rested his head against Grantaire’s leg. 

He did not notice how couldn’t feel the emptiness in his chest any longer.

~*~

It was the week before the fundraiser that things came to a head. Courfeyrac had not missed the way Enjolras acted around him. He was constantly bitter and snappy but then would immediately be apologetic and find an excuse to leave. He was wearing Enjolras down, he knew it, and it would only take one more nudge to light that fuse. So Courfeyrac planned to make it a biggy. 

~*~

The group had convened at Cosette’s to discuss the final details of the fundraiser, and Enjolras had just started one of his motivational speeches on how important their work was and that if they believed, they could really make a difference. It was something he always did to give the group that extra encouragement and faith that everything would go well.

“These people need our help. Whilst we have nice warm homes to go to every night, they are left out on the streets cold and hungry.” He paused. Nobody spoke. He frowned and continued. “With the money we raise from this, we will be providing them not only with a meal and basic supplies, but the charity also helps to find accommodation and employment for those on the streets. It brings hope to those who have all but lost it.” He paused again, shifting on the spot. He saw Courfeyrac lean over and whisper something in Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire smirked and muttered something back. “Not only that,” Enjolras continued, ignoring them, “but we will be creating awareness for the Amis. The more people who know about us, the more people will be willing to donate and be a part of what we do. If this is successful, they will see that the Amis cares and makes a difference, and maybe we can even beat last year’s targets.” Grantaire was whispering to Courfeyrac again and Enjolras felt his blood boil. “Do you have something to say?” he snapped, glaring at Grantaire with a terrifying passion. A smile tugged at Grantaire’s lips. 

“Nothing you’ve not heard before,” he shrugged.

That was it. That was what was wrong. Grantaire hadn’t interrupted once during his speech. Not _once_ had he put him down or corrected his mistakes. Usually they would have had a shouting match by now about something petty and unnecessary, but instead Grantaire had been conspiring with Courfeyrac at the back of the room like children and left Enjolras be. 

Enjolras didn’t like it. He would never admit it but he liked it when Grantaire challenged him. It strengthened his own arguments as well as made the day that bit more interesting. Grantaire always thought from another perspective, even if he did not agree with them himself, and he was so knowledgeable about history and the arts. He could recite poetry from the top of his head and describe cultures from some unknown countries like he was one of them. It made for some fascinating conversations. 

And now Courfeyrac had stolen them from him. 

He was still fuming at Grantaire as he processed this and Grantaire must have misunderstood because he sighed dramatically and said, “You asked for it.” He shifted in his seat so that he sat up straighter. “You are a society Enjolras, not the Avengers. Yes, you may raise a bit of money but that money is probably going to go into the pockets of the employees and all those ridiculous sorrowful adverts on the television. And on the thousands of free pens they give out with the charity details on that get lost almost immediately and then turn up at the bottom of a handbag two years later. I expect about twenty cents of every euro you make will actually go someone in need. You might as well go out on the streets and beg yourself. I’m sure you have a killer puppy dog face that could melt the hearts and _empty the pockets_ of many a passer-by.”

“You’re right,” said Enjolras coldly, “I have heard you say that before.” 

Grantaire made a gesture that said ‘I told you so.’ 

“That’s why I didn’t bother you about it. I didn’t want to interrupt you whilst you were on a roll.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” 

Grantaire laughed. Enjolras’s stomach flipped. He felt himself relax a little. This was more familiar. As it should be.

“True. But Courfeyrac said that this meeting was important to you. So for once in my life I thought I’d keep my mouth shut. We’ve been debating your cause back and forth here for the last ten minutes.”

“Grantaire made some very good points,” added Courfeyrac. Enjolras stiffened. He knew, he _knew_ , that Courfeyrac was doing this deliberately. 

And then Courfeyrac put his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and that was the final straw. 

He stalked over to where they were sitting on the floor with their backs leaning against the wall and towered over them. 

“Courfeyrac, could I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute please?” The way he said it sounded like being civil was physically painful for him. 

“Sure,” replied Courfeyrac innocently, patting Grantaire on the knee and winking at him. Enjolras gritted his teeth together.

Enjolras lead the way to the kitchen, hearing Combeferre trying to distract the others by discussing the posters for the fundraiser. 

“What’s your problem?” Enjolras growled when they were out of earshot of everyone else. Courfeyrac looked confused and that only made Enjolras angrier. “You’ve been acting weird lately, when you are around Grantaire. It’s _always_ around him.”

Courfeyrac gave him a sheepish look. 

“I… I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Enjolras hissed, bearing his teeth like a lion. He forced himself into Courfeyrac’s personal space, determined to intimidate him. Courfeyrac backed away a little. 

“I can’t help it,” he said apologetically. He stared at his feet, unable to meet Enjolras’s gaze. “Do you remember a few weeks ago when I nearly fell down the stairs here and died?”

“You were hardly close to death, you tripped up a few steps-”

“I almost died,” Courfeyrac said matter-of-factly, momentarily forgetting his bashfulness. He blushed and went back to staring at his feet. Enjolras wanted to know the truth so he allowed Courfeyrac his dramatics just this once. “Well,” he continued, “Grantaire caught me just as my life flashed before my eyes.” Enjolras raised his eyebrow unconvinced, but he said nothing. “In that moment I realised how much fun I’ve had with Grantaire, how kind he was, and funny!” He threw his head back in reminiscence, his eyes going all glazed over and dreamy. “How he always brings a new perspective in debates that I haven’t even considered before. How he is always laughing and how beautiful he is when he does. How he may tease us but he would defend us to the death should it come to it. And he is so intelligent! He could tell you the story, the correct story and not just the common misguided general opinions, of Orestes and Pylades without consulting a single textbook. I mean, who does that? He is so gifted and I know there is more to him that he’s afraid to show because he doubts himself so much. I want to show him just how amazing he is.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Do you understand?”

Enjolras understood. Enjolras understood more than Courfeyrac could possibly know. Courfeyrac had just put into words what Enjolras had been struggling to do so for the past few weeks, possibly longer. He had explained the cause of every twinge of the stomach Enjolras had had, every explosion of short temper, every fluttering of the heart. And now it was too late. Courfeyrac had got their first. His stomach dropped. 

“You have feelings for Grantaire?” he asked quietly. 

There was a pause. Courfeyrac held his gaze and Enjolras prepared himself for the worst. He held his breath. It felt as if his heart was imploding, shrinking into itself so that it could hide away from the answer it knew was coming. Enjolras felt sick.

And then Courfeyrac spoke.

“No.”

Enjolras frowned. And then tilted his head like a puppy as if he hadn’t heard properly. That was not the answer he was expecting. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t have feelings for Grantaire.” 

Enjolras’s sinking heart exploded in his chest. Every brain cell was screaming _YES_ at the top of its little imaginary lungs. Enjolras bit back a smile.

“But _you_ do.”

It was at that point that Enjolras noticed how Courfeyrac’s composure had completely changed. He was no longer timid and embarrassed but smug and superior looking. He pushed on his hands against the surface to lift himself up and sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs back and forth like a child. 

“W-what? What? No-n-no!” Enjolras stuttered in a rather delayed reaction.

“You can’t deny it, I’ve known longer than you have!”

Enjolras opened and closed his mouth like a stunned goldfish. He didn’t see the point of denying it; at this point he didn’t think he _could_ deny it. Not to Courfeyrac at least, who was watching him with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eye.

“How could you have possibly known when I only figured it out myself ten seconds ago?”

“Because sometimes Enjolras, you are the most oblivious idiot I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

Enjolras frowned. This was all too much. He needed to straighten out the train wreck that was going on inside his head.

“When did you realise?”

Courfeyrac thought for a moment, tapping his chin with his index finger.

“Remember when Grantaire went on that trip to New York as part of his art course? He was away for a week or so.” 

Enjolras nodded. It had been the quietest and _longest_ week of his life. It was the first time he had admitted to himself that he liked arguing with Grantaire. 

“You were like a lost puppy when Grantaire wasn’t there to argue with you like you had expected him to. Kind of like tonight actually. Anyway, you realised how much you liked him when he was not there – kind of like that saying ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.’ And then Grantaire came back and the first thing you did was argue. I don’t think you had feelings for him before that. I think having that time away from him made you realise how important he was to you and you didn’t want him to go away again.” 

Enjolras didn’t know what to say to that. 

“It was kind of sweet actually,” he continued, smiling to himself. “You’d do all these little things without realising it was because you wanted to get into Grantaire’s pants.”

“Don’t be so crude,” said Enjolras disapprovingly. It was an automatic response he had gained from knowing his friend for so long. “What did I do?” 

Courfeyrac answered with a question of his own.

“Your leather jacket, why do you wear it?”

“It’s warm and comfortable and it was a gift from Cosette.”

“And?”

“And…” Enjolras gave a sigh of defeat. “I heard Grantaire tell Cosette how good it looked on me. But I just thought that if it suited me I should wear it, I didn’t even think about the fact that it was Grantaire that had said it.”

“What did Grantaire say exactly?” Courfeyrac asked.

Enjolras pursed his lips. 

“’Enjolras has never looked so goddamn fuckable’,” Enjolras repeated, lowering his voice to mimic Grantaire. “’Why did you go and give him a thing like that?’” 

Courfeyrac’s jaw dropped.

“And you didn’t consider that maybe you wanted to wear the jacket because you _wanted_ Grantaire to find you fuckable?” Courfeyrac shook his head in disbelief. “You have been pining for quite some time my friend.” He patted Enjolras on the shoulder sympathetically. “That’s why I felt the need to intervene.”

“Yes can you please explain what you’ve been up to because I am pretty sure everyone thinks you’re in love with Grantaire,” Enjolras said, putting his hands on his hips. 

“I thought it was about time you realised how much you liked Grantaire, but of course if I just told you, you would never have believed me so I had to do something a bit more drastic. I decided to flirt with Grantaire and make you jealous until the penny dropped.” He opened his arms out wide, positively beaming. “And it worked.”

“So you don’t fancy Grantaire?”

“Nope. In fact I am rather hung up on someone else and it has been _killing_ me to ignore them as much as I have. So I hope you appreciate what I’ve done for you.”

“Appreciation is not the first thing I think of to give you for this,” Enjolras said dryly. 

“Stop looking at me like that and get back in there and ask Grantaire out!”

Courfeyrac jumped off the kitchen surface and started ushering Enjolras back into the other room. 

“Waitwaitwait,” Enjolras halted in his tracks. “Just let me be sure. You and Grantaire do not have feelings for each other?”

“None whatsoever. Grantaire knows I like someone else.”

Enjolras gave an affirmative nod, more to himself than Courfeyrac, and then Courfeyrac was nudging him back into the other room again. 

Everyone had broken up into groups, chatting away as friends did. Enjolras spotted Combeferre and made for him. The thought of someone so ordered and sensible was comforting when his own life had just thrown a curve ball. He sat down rather dazed. Combeferre had a radar for this sort of thing and he immediately noticed the crease in Enjolras’s forehead and downturned mouth. 

“Enjolras, are you all right?” To his surprise, Enjolras burst out laughing.

“God, I’ve been such an idiot! Courf isn’t in love with Grantaire!” He was talking more to himself than anyone else, but Combeferre continued to listen. “I’ve been so stupid, of course they aren’t a couple! They just don’t make sense! I’ve been blind and all stressed over nothing.”

“Wait,” Combeferre couldn’t help but interrupt, “Courfeyrac _isn’t_ in love with Grantaire?” Enjolras turned to him. He was grinning, he couldn’t stop himself. Combeferre had never seen him so look wild.

“You’re very pale,” Enjolras said absentmindedly.

“Enjolras _please_ , what do you mean Courfeyrac isn’t in love with Grantaire?”

“He just told me,” Enjolras replied, nodding to the kitchen where the conversation had taken place. “Apparently he is hung up on someone else and Grantaire is the only one that knows. He has been trying to-”

Enjolras stopped short when he realised Combeferre was no longer sitting beside him. He had shot up and was glancing between Courfeyrac and Grantaire. Courfeyrac was sending a very smug smile Grantaire’s way, but there was no hint of the flirtations or bashfulness that had been there over the past few weeks. It was as if they had never been there at all, evaporated into the surroundings like steam. 

In three swift confident strides, Combeferre walked to where Courfeyrac was standing. Courfeyrac caught his breath a little when he realised how close he was, but he corrected himself and smiled inquiringly, expecting him to speak. 

But he did not.

Combeferre took Courfeyrac’s face in his hands so that he cradled him and planted a desperate kiss on his lips. Courfeyrac froze under his touch, but when his brain finally kicked in and told him that this was _actually happening_ , he threw his arms around Combeferre’s shoulders and kissed him back with great enthusiasm. 

~*~

 _A few weeks earlier_.

“Oh, but I need to run to the shops and get some sheets to cover my bed first. Hey Tinkerbell,” Grantaire said dryly, “fancy coming over early and giving me a lift?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac said after a particularly long pause. “Anything to help.”

Combeferre was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. He didn’t notice Courfeyrac dive for his spot as his feet took him to where Grantaire was leaning against the wall above Éponine and Bossuet. They acknowledged his presence with a quick smile, which he returned. He then leant forward and whispered something in Grantaire’s ear.

“Could I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment please?”

Grantaire gave him a puzzled nod and followed him into the room next door.

“I know this is none of my business,” he started, and Grantaire knew that tone. They all did. It was the tone of the wise one offering words of wisdom when he was concerned about what you were doing. It was a grave tone, and one you most certainly took seriously. “But you aren’t stupid Grantaire, and I don’t think you’ve been playing fair with Courfeyrac. You must have seen the way he looks at you and it’s not right the way you have been taking advantage of him.”

Grantaire, who had been sipping on the cocktail Courfeyrac had made for him, promptly choked on it. Combeferre showed no sympathy.

“Everybody knows how you feel about Enjolras, it’s not fair for you to string him along when you know you won’t be able to return his feelings.” Grantaire was biting back laughter but Combeferre was determined to get his point across. “All I’m saying is you should let him down gently now before someone gets hurt.”

“Oh Combeferre!” Grantaire half-laughed-half-sighed, giving a dramatic roll of the eyes. There were tears in his eyes from where he was trying not to laugh so hard. Combeferre didn’t understand; there was nothing funny about what he had just said.

“Grantaire-” he warned in his firmest tone but Grantaire interrupted him.

“Courfeyrac doesn’t have feelings for me.” He was really laughing now. If Combeferre was the type to get angry, he would have lost his temper then, but instead he argued with sensible and logical facts as was his way.

“Courfeyrac has been doting on your for weeks. Have you not noticed the way-” But again Grantaire interrupted him. 

“No no, you don’t understand.” He took a moment to collect himself and gave Combeferre the most serious face he could muster. “Courfeyrac is not in love with me,” he said, putting a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “He is up to something. I can’t tell you what, that is between me and him, but he is up to something. I know it and he _knows_ I know it.”

“I… I don’t understand, if that’s the case then why bother with it at all?”

Grantaire pulled a face. It wasn’t easy trying to explain something when you have been sworn to secrecy.

“Like I said, that’s between me and him. But rest assured my friend that the only person he is interested in is you.”

Combeferre gave a startled reaction.

“What?”

“That’s why you are being all protective of him, isn’t it?” he asked like it was common knowledge. “You care about him but you think he likes me so being the idiotic gentleman you are, you back off. But you don’t want to see him get hurt so you pull me aside to let him down gently. You’re not the only one who knows his friends too well.” Combeferre was very rarely struck dumbfounded, and even less often seen blushing, so Grantaire made the most of it. “What you need to do is ask him out and you’ll see.”

“Oh,” said Combeferre, the shock disappearing into a realisation. “I see what you are doing. You know I like Courfeyrac, I won’t deny it-” Grantaire let out a ‘yesss’ but Combeferre ignored him. “-so you want me to ask him out so you don’t have to. He _does_ have feelings for you but you don’t have the heart to turn him down so you want me to put myself on the line to distract him. Well I have to say I think that’s very cruel-”

“What?” Grantaire said completely shocked and insulted. “No, no! Look,” he said with a finality that kept Combeferre silent, “Courfeyrac likes you and the moment you realise that I want you to take him to a back alley and have your way with him.” Combeferre pulled a face at Grantaire’s crudeness. “Swear to me that you will do that.”

“I don’t believe you. You only have to see the way he looks at you-”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Courfeyrac is being an idiot at the moment, but he’ll give up eventually and then you will see it’s _you_ he has the hots for. Now swear to me that you will ask him out when you realise that.” 

Combeferre let out a resigned sigh.

“I swear.”

~*~

“Yes!”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre broke apart to search for the source of the exclamation. Grantaire was lowering his arm after just punching the air in success. Everyone in the room was staring at him. 

“I just won fifty euros,” he announced proudly. 

Courfeyrac looked at Grantaire, then pointedly at Combeferre, and then back at Grantaire. He shrugged. 

“I think I am the real winner here,” he said simply. 

Grantaire’s smile faltered and his eyes searched out Enjolras before he could stop himself. Enjolras was looking at him with an expression that Grantaire truly did not know how to interpret. Grantaire ducked his head and swallowed. 

“But I thought…” came Éponine’s confused voice. She gestured between Courfeyrac and Grantaire.

“So did I,” said Cosette. There were a few other nods and noises of agreement from the others. Courfeyrac laughed. 

“Oh god no! Can you imagine Grantaire and I together? The world would self-destruct to save itself from the chaos that would be our relationship. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” and with that, Courfeyrac sought out Combeferre’s lips once more. 

~*~

It had been almost two weeks since the whole Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Grantaire situation. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had become an official couple within hours of the kiss, which was really no surprise to anyone after the gross display of public affection they had shown in Cosette’s living room. Thankfully they hadn’t taken it any further, at least not in front of their friends. Grantaire had reminded Combeferre of the perfectly lit, hardly every used back alley behind Cosette’s flat and Combeferre and Courfeyrac weren’t seen for a good few hours after that but who’s to say what happened there? Courfeyrac had also apparently explained his ridiculous jealousy plan to Combeferre, because Combeferre brought it up later to Enjolras. 

“It did kind of work,” he said nonchalantly as he and Enjolras watched a film together. “I mean I knew you liked Grantaire, but I wanted to give you time to accept it before I pushed you into his lap.”

“Gee thanks,” said Enjolras sarcastically, dropping a piece of popcorn into his mouth and chewing. 

That had been the day after. It was now twelve days since Enjolras’s epiphany, not that he was counting, and he had still done nothing about it. 

That night he had avoided Grantaire like the plague. He felt that if he was to speak to him, Grantaire would immediately sense that he liked him and he wasn’t ready for that kind of humiliation and rejection. He couldn’t help wishing though that it was him and Grantaire kissing in front everyone instead of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Grantaire had caught him looking at him at the point where he was wondering what his lips tasted like and the sheer horror of the thought that Grantaire could read his mind had paralysed him. 

They had barely spoken since then. The first week Enjolras was distracted by the fundraiser. It went well, they raised a record amount of money and plenty of awareness for the group, but Enjolras couldn’t help but notice the distinct lack of Grantaire. All leaflets and posters were ready as promised, but it had been Courfeyrac who had delivered them. 

“Grantaire not coming?” he had asked as indifferently as he could manage, but he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Courfeyrac gave him an apologetic look. 

“His art project is due soon and in true Grantaire style he’s left it until the last minute. He says he’s sorry to let you down but you ‘probably didn’t need the cynic anyway’.” Courfeyrac made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. Enjolras’s hard exterior hid the disappointment he felt. “He made some buttons for you to sell to raise a bit more money as an apology.”

Courfeyrac handed him a cardboard box filled with different coloured buttons, each with their logo and tag line written on them. 

“Thanks, they are actually pretty good.” 

Courfeyrac smiled.

“Be sure to tell him that,” he said before wandering off to help Bahorel with the stage preparations. 

Enjolras was left with his thoughts. He fingered one of the buttons gently, before pinning it to his jacket, green badge on red coat, where it would make the most impact. He took out his phone, stretched his arm out to its full length, and snapped a picture of himself wearing the badge. He quickly tapped out a text.

_To: Grantaire_

_Thanks. I hope your project goes well. The badges are great._

_E_

_>_

He got a reply a few minutes later.

_From: Grantaire_

_Thanks. Good luck with the fundraiser. Knock ‘em dead Apollo._

_R_

That had been their last real communication. Sure, they lived in the same flat so they exchanged the odd nod and smile, but Grantaire was always in a rush and unable to chat the way Enjolras wanted to. He looked so tired though, and Enjolras was worried about him. 

Grantaire didn’t come to the next Amis meeting or the trip to the coffee shop or movie night. He would stay cooped up in his room and only ventured out for food. Once Enjolras had seen a ladder outside his door and he really wasn’t sure what to make of it. But whenever he voiced his concerns, he would be told Grantaire was working and that he should text him if he was so worried. Enjolras would then get all flushed and flustered and mumble something about just being concerned about his friend.

He didn’t like it. So he moped about the flat hoping he might bump into Grantaire just so he could be sure he was okay. 

“You look awful,” Courfeyrac said matter-of-factly as he and Combeferre met Enjolras in the corridor of their flat. They were just going on a lunch date as Enjolras was returning from a morning lecture. He hated going to those because they meant he wasn’t in the flat to keep an eye on Grantaire. 

“Thank you,” he said dryly. He did not need Courfeyrac to tell him that. He had seen his reflection in his mirror that morning when he was getting dressed. The dark circles around him eyes dimmed their natural blue so they looked zombiefied. His lips were the same colour as the rest of his pale face. His hair was a mess, and not the good kind. Even his confident and superior posture had taken a slumped and inverted turn. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen-” He stopped short, going wide eyed. Combeferre sighed. 

“No we have not seen Grantaire this morning. Would you stop worrying? He’s fine.”

“How do you know when you haven’t seen him?” Enjolras asked wildly.

“Because I text him and he says he is still working on his project.”

Enjolras’s nostrils flared but he bit back any reply he wanted to make. The project excuse was wearing thin. 

“More importantly,” said Courfeyrac, “why haven’t you asked him out yet? I spent all that time pretending to like Grantaire,” Combeferre put his arm around Courfeyrac’s waist, “you could at least have the decency to make it worth it.”

Enjolras groaned. He was tired, he wanted to go back to bed. Maybe that was why his answer was perhaps a little more honest than he meant. 

“What if he doesn’t feel the same way?” he mumbled, chewing his bottom lip.

“Are. You. Blind?” Courfeyrac said, his jaw dropping. “That’s what’s been stopping you?” Enjolras nodded, tugging the sleeves of his red knitted jumper over his hands. Courfeyrac blinked once excruciatingly slowly and then let all hell break loose. “Enjolras,” he said seriously, “I have never seen anyone more smitten than Grantaire is with you. He _adores_ you. He calls you Apollo because he _literally_ thinks the sun shines out of your arse.”

Enjolras could see the months of pent up frustration his friends had stored away as they watched Enjolras and Grantaire run circles around each other beginning to explode from Courfeyrac. He had to step back to avoid being hit by his flailing arms. 

“All you ever had to do was click your fingers and he’d coming running. How, _how_ have you not seen the way he looks at you?”

“If you’re so certain he has feelings for me-” Just saying that out loud made Enjolras’s heart flutter. He didn’t dare to hope, but even the possibility filled him with joy. “-then why hasn’t he done anything about it?”

“He-” Courfeyrac pulled a face and turned to Combeferre for help. Combeferre pulled his lips tight and exhaled. 

“He doesn’t think himself worthy of you,” he said slowly. 

“What?” Enjolras’s whole body recoiled from the idea. It didn’t make sense. Grantaire was worth a thousand Enjolrases. Grantaire was funny, talented, intelligent, care free, loyal, beautiful. He was _everything_.

“He’s a sinner and you’re a saint. You’re his _Apollo_. He doesn’t believe you could fall for someone as flawed as him. So he chose to worship and serve you so that at least he could be close to you.” Enjolras eyed Combeferre suspiciously. Guilt flashed across Combeferre’s face. “He may have told me that once.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” asked Enjolras in a strangled voice.

“It wasn’t my place to,” said Combeferre pulling a face that said Enjolras should have known better than to say something like that.

“So you see, _now_ ,” said Courfeyrac, “you have to ask him out.”

Enjolras let out a pathetic whine and hid his face in his hands. He was a coward. He couldn’t get past the fear of hearing the word ‘no’. 

He felt a hand wrap around his wrist and before he knew what was happening he was being dragged down the corridor. He gasped when Courfeyrac stopped him in front of Grantaire’s door and knocked for him.

“Courfeyrac what do you think you are doing?” Enjolras hissed in a panic. He grabbed hold of Courfeyrac but the other man shook himself free. 

“Too much thinking not enough doing,” he sang, retreating back to Combeferre. “Do it,” he whispered. Enjolras took a deep breath and knocked on the door himself. He turned back to Courfeyrac, not sure if he wanted to be helped or rescued, but Courfeyrac just gave him a thumbs up and crossed his fingers for good luck before exiting the flat hand in hand with Combeferre. 

Enjolras did not have the time to plan what he was going to say as he would have liked because as soon as they were gone the door opened and Grantaire was standing there in all his glory. 

The first thing Enjolras noticed was the smears of paint along his jawline and cheekbone. It was a dusty brown colour and must have been there for some time because it was dry and cracking on his skin. He looked exhausted; Enjolras guessed that that hair hadn’t seen a comb in days. But his eyes, they were _alive_. Enjolras couldn’t quite explain it. They sparkled like there was a fire going on behind them. It was as if half of him was in his own little world and did not see Enjolras standing there in front of him. It knocked the air out of Enjolras’s lungs.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire said cheerfully but with some surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He did not invite Enjolras in. He had only poked his head round the door, keeping it as shut as he could manage with his neck in the way so that Enjolras could not see into his room. 

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you?” he managed to get out. He hoped he didn’t sound as nervous and unsure as he felt. He tried to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder to hint that he wanted to come inside but Grantaire just pulled the door further shut.

“Now isn’t really a good time,” he said apologetically. “I really need to get this project finished. I’ve got two days left before my viewing and it’s still not quite right.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. Is it important?”

Enjolras hesitated.

“No, not important. It can wait.” He forced a smile and stepped back. “Some other time.”

Grantaire bowed his head appreciatively and then disappeared back into his room. 

Enjolras was left standing in the corridor unsure of what to do with himself. This was so unlike him. Lost and confused; he hated it. The way he had become a zombie, his thoughts consumed by Grantaire, or rather the lack of him, and the acknowledgement of his feelings but being unable to act upon them. It had taken hold of his life and was refusing to let go.

Well one thing it hadn’t counted on was that Enjolras was stubborn, and he wasn’t about to take ‘later’ for an answer.

He rapped his knuckles against Grantaire’s door and waited as he heard footsteps approach.

“Enjolras,” he declared more mockingly than cheery like before. “Do you know I’ve got this funny sense of déjà vu going on right n-”

“Actually it is important and it can’t wait,” Enjolras said and he pushed his way into Grantaire’s room without an invitation. 

“Enjolras what the f-” Grantaire yelled as he staggered backwards at the force. “You don’t just go barging into people’s bedrooms like you own the place no matter how much of a god you think yo-”

He stopped short when he caught sight of Enjolras’s expression. He was staring - gaping - at Grantaire’s walls. “Ah yes, I see you’ve found my art project,” he said lamely.  
Enjolras hushed him. He needed a moment. He needed to take it all in. 

Grantaire’s walls were painted top to bottom with the most incredible artwork Enjolras had ever seen. It was a scene from the revolution, with the people of France defending a barricade as the National Guard attacked. 

The best way to describe what he was seeing was to go wall by wall. 

On the first wall, directly in front of Enjolras, was the front of the barricade. It was painted so that it looked like you were gazing over the top. Up ahead you could see the National Guardsmen approaching, taking aim and loading their cannons. 

The rest of the walls were set behind the barricade with the revolutionaries. Enjolras squinted at the wall on his left.  
“Is that… _us_?”

He could not have been mistaken. He recognised his own petite nose and feminine jawline in the figure that was at the front of the revolutionaries. His hair was longer and tied back with a strip of ribbon, and his red jacket and trousers were more suited to the fashion of the time, but it was him. He also recognised the person standing behind him in the painting as Combeferre. He spun on the spot and picked out the faces of all their friends on the walls around him. He turned to Grantaire, who shrugged.

“It’s easier to paint people when you have someone to base them on,” he explained, rubbing the back of his head bashfully. Enjolras nodded, he could understand that. He went back to looking at the painting. 

The version of Enjolras Grantaire had painted was crouched over the top of the barricade, aiming his weapon at the National Guard. He was in front of all the other revolutionaries in the scene, and Enjolras got the sense that he was supposed to be the leader. Combeferre was standing close behind him, scrutinising the enemy with his mouth open, like he was telling Enjolras what he saw. Courfeyrac was in the middle of the wall, tipping his hat towards you in a gentlemanly way and holding his hand out stretched, inviting you to join the revolution like he was asking you to dance. He was standing in front of a bar with the name ‘Corinthe’ painted in gold letters over the entrance of the door. Inside Enjolras could see Musichetta serving drinks to some customers.

On the wall to the right he could see Jehan waving a large red flag proudly over his head, Marius on look out, Bossuet running to the front line, and Feuilly offering you ammunition. Their background was a series of terrace houses in which one of the windows Cosette was looking sorrowfully out of. 

On the final wall behind Enjolras, Joly was attending to the wounded, one of which was Bahorel. Éponine was already dead beside him. 

“It was either that or have her like Cosette weeping at the loss of men, and I don’t think Éponine would have appreciated that.” 

Enjolras would have laughed if he wasn’t so full of awe at Grantaire’s creation. 

To finish off the installation Grantaire had taken the carpet off the floor so that the floorboards were visible. Even the ceiling had been painted to look like all the gunpowder had risen and collected so that the sky was musky with dust and residue. 

“All this time you really have been working on your project?”

Grantaire frowned. 

“Yes of course. Why, what did you think I was doing?”

 _Avoiding me_ , Enjolras thought.

“Where are you?” he asked instead, double checking all the faces in the painting and not being able to find anyone who looked remotely like Grantaire. 

“I wouldn’t want to ruin my art with a face like mine, Apollo,” Grantaire joked. When Enjolras didn’t laugh, he sighed. “I’m here.” He pointed to the floor where he was standing.

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras said slowly. The only Grantaire he saw was the one of flesh and blood. 

“I am the painter, or the onlooker. You’re me too. You are standing in the centre of it all, surrounded by the revolution but not quite being a part of it. Courfeyrac is beckoning you to join them, Cosette is crying for you, Feuilly is giving you bullets. You aren’t just looking at a painting of the revolution in a museum, you are a _part_ of it. At least that’s the idea.” He pulled out his iPod from his pocket and yanked out the earphones so that it would play on loudspeaker. “Here,” he said as he scrolled through a playlist, “you might as well have the full effect.”

There was a few seconds of silence and then Enjolras’s ears were filled with the sounds of gunshots and screaming, of running and of people shouting strategic battle commands. With that, on top of the scene surrounding Enjolras of his friends fighting and dying, it was all too much. It overwhelmed him. He began to cry.

“Oh god it’s not _that_ bad is it?” Grantaire teased but Enjolras could see that he was self-conscious. He was shifting on his feet and picking at the skin around his fingernails. He had stopped the soundtrack Enjolras assumed had come from a film or television battle. 

This time Enjolras did laugh. He shook his head and wiped away the tear running down his cheek with the back of his sleeve. 

“I love it,” he whispered, clearing his throat and trying to swallow away the lump he felt there. “I haven’t seen anything like this. I… I cannot describe how this makes me feel. It’s brilliant! It’s beautiful! You… you are…” He shook his head again. He couldn’t find the words he wanted to say to express how he felt. 

Instead he turned back to the painting of himself that Grantaire had done, stepping closer to get a better look. Grantaire had captured his face perfectly, his youthful complexion, his big blue eyes, that cold hard stare he knew he pulled when he was focused on something. It was like looking into a mirror. A mirror that made your hair longer and dressed you in clothing from the 1800s. He glanced at Combeferre beside him and then he noticed something. 

Combeferre was filthy with the dirt of the battlefield, his clothes torn and blood-stained, and there were streaks of mud on his forehead. Enjolras, on the other hand, was immaculate. His clothing was in perfect condition and there was not a speck of blood or dirt on him. Enjolras glanced around at all the other figures in the painting. They all showed signs of the griminess of the battlefield. Except for him. There was a lot more detail with him than anyone else too. He could actually make out the buttonholes in his jacket and the laces on his shoes. And then there was his hair. It was like there was a golden haze around his head that created a sort of halo that you could only see if you were looking as close as Enjolras was now. 

And then a voice in his head said to him, _this is Grantaire expressing how he feels about you. He thinks you are perfect. You are his god, his Apollo, and even amidst a battlefield you could not be touched by the ugliness of it all. He has painted how much he loves you_. And he felt his heart explode. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Grantaire said, stepping beside Enjolras and nodding to the portrait of him. He frowned at it. “I just can’t seem to get it right.”

“What do you mean?”

“It just doesn’t compare to the real thing.”

There was only one thing that Enjolras could do to that. He was not known for being spontaneous but all he knew was that he wanted to kiss Grantaire to show him what was going on in his head. And so he did. He crashed their lips together, inhaling the smell of paint on Grantaire’s skin as he did so. He brought his hand up to Grantaire’s cheek to ensure he did not miss his target, and shut his eyes, afraid of seeing Grantaire’s reaction.

Grantaire did not react at all at first. His lips stayed flat and un-puckered and his whole body tensed up. It was only when Enjolras pulled back did it sink in that _this was actually happening_ and then his mouth became the devil itself. 

He kissed Enjolras fiercely, taking Enjolras by surprise. He licked at Enjolras’s lips and Enjolras opened his mouth obligingly. Immediately Grantaire was exploring his mouth and _god_ it felt good. And then Grantaire was biting his bottom lip, tugging gently at it as his hands found their way to Enjolras’s hips. He fingered the hem of Enjolras’s jumper and when Enjolras did not tell him to stop, they crept up his abdomen and found his glorious chest.

He only had to brush his fingertips across Enjolras’s nipple for Enjolras to go wild. He slammed Grantaire against the wall and pounced upon his exposed neck with the full intention of sucking and biting until he had left his mark there. But then he felt a hand pressed on his chest as Grantaire pushed him away and _shit shit shit_ he had gone too far too quickly. He staggered back, panicked and ashamed. 

Grantaire stepped towards Enjolras and then twisted his head around as far back as he could go, inspecting the back of his shirt. He swore and then turned to face the wall. 

Relief flooded Enjolras, but that was quickly replaced by a new sense of guilt and shame. Grantaire’s tshirt was smeared with red and brown paint. The wall where Enjolras had had Grantaire up against had a matching splodge where Enjolras and Combeferre’s jackets had merged into a purple mess. 

“Shit I am so sorry,” said Enjolras, trying to catch his breath.

“To be honest,” said Grantaire, “right now I really couldn’t care less.” 

Enjolras gave him a disapproving look. 

“You have been working on this for _weeks_ Grantaire, I am not going to let you fall at the final hurdle.” He sighed regretfully. “Fix this, perfect it. Keep working at it until you are happy or until you cannot stand the sight of it any more. And then come and find me. I’ll be waiting.”

“Wait,” said Grantaire suspiciously, “you want to… do this again?”

“I’m sorry, was me throwing you against a wall not clear enough?” Enjolras replied sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and then shot Grantaire a cocky smile. “Grantaire I like you _a lot_. Would you be interested in becoming my boyfriend?”

Grantaire dived at him, throwing his arms around Enjolras’s shoulders and kissing him silly. Enjolras laughed into the kiss, giddy on love and lust and _Grantaire_. 

He pulled away.

“No, no, no. Project first. Pass with flying colours like you deserve and then nothing will be in our way. In two days.”

Enjolras ignored Grantaire’s pitiful protests and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. He gave him a delicate little wave of the fingers as he left Grantaire alone with his masterpiece. 

~*~

The next morning Enjolras was in the kitchen sipping at a glass of fresh orange juice as Combeferre made them both omelettes. They were his speciality. 

“What do you want in yours?” Combeferre asked as he opened the fridge to find out what they had. “I can offer you cheese and tomato, cheese and chive, or cheese and ham.” 

“Cheese is not optional then?” Enjolras teased. He narrowed his eyes as he pondered his options and then opened his mouth to give his answer but someone interrupted him. 

“It’s finished.”

Grantaire was standing in the door way, gripping onto the frame so tightly that his knuckles were white. His black pupils were hungry for Enjolras. 

“What’s finished?” asked Combeferre. 

“The painting.” His voice was like sandpaper. He did not take his eyes off Enjolras. 

Enjolras rose out of his seat very slowly. He took in Grantaire’s appearance. The dark circles around his eyes, the same clothes as yesterday, the hair even wilder than before. 

“Have you even slept since yesterday?” 

Grantaire shook his head. 

“It’s finished,” he repeated. Enjolras swallowed hard. 

“I think I am going to skip breakfast today," he said calmly. 

And then he charged at Grantaire, crashing their lips together and touching every inch of skin he could find. Grantaire’s groan was magical. He lifted Enjolras up and Enjolras wrapped his legs around his waist obligingly. Enjolras scrambled to get Grantaire’s tshirt off him, which wasn’t as easy as it sounded because he didn’t want to stop kissing him for one moment.

“Not in the kitchen, _not in the kitchen_!” cried Combeferre as he shooed his friends out with a tea towel. One swipe hit Enjolras on the leg and he hissed. 

“All right, _all right_ ,” he said, incredibly frustrated that his tongue was not down Grantaire’s throat. Grantaire smirked and _oh_ that was not fair. He was still holding Enjolras like he was a toddler and weighed next to nothing. Enjolras made a mental note to explore those arms further. He bit his lip and gave Grantaire an apprehensive look. 

“I am not risking a repeat of yesterday,” Grantaire replied, understanding what Enjolras was asking. 

“My room it is then,” Enjolras purred. They grinned at each other and then they were back to hungry, furious kissing that left their lips red raw. Grantaire started to walk towards  
Enjolras’s bedroom and Enjolras went to kissing and sucking at Grantaire’s neck so that he could see where he was going and didn’t walk them both into a wall. He grazed his bottom teeth along Grantaire’s collar bone and he chuckled when Grantaire increase speed. 

“Oh dear _god_!” 

Enjolras lifted his head and saw a truly horrified Courfeyrac coming through the front door and staring at them. Enjolras had enough time to give him a wink as he and Grantaire entered his bedroom.

“’Ferre, Jehan, we are getting out of here _right now_ ,” he heard Courfeyrac yell as Grantaire kicked the door shut behind them. 

~*~

“So we are going F, F minor, C, okay? Can you do that?”

Enjolras nodded as he positioned his fingers on the fret board. He had his tongue poking out as he concentrated and Grantaire found it adorable. 

“What are you up to?” said Courfeyrac as he wandered into Enjolras’s bedroom uninvited. Grantaire knew they should have shut the door but Enjolras insisted they should keep it open in case the examiner needed to find him. 

“I am teaching Enjolras how to play I Will Follow You Into The Dark by Death Cab For Cutie.” 

Enjolras made a sort of confirmation noise as he practised changing between the chords without strumming. 

“I thought your art project was being marked today.”

“The examiner is in there now,” Grantaire replied, nodding his head in the direction of his bedroom slash installation. “I’m not allowed in there at the same time so I can’t see what he gives me or something along those lines. I just gave him a brief introduction to explain it all, turned on the music and left him to it. He’s been in there for almost half an hour. I’d be worried if I cared.”

“You _are_ worried and you _do_ care,” said Enjolras without looking up. “I only asked you to teach me something because you’ve been irritating me by tapping those fingers of yours on every surface you could lay your hands on.”

“You’ve been distracting me?” said Grantaire, mockingly offended.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No. Only, there are _other_ ways you could have kept me busy.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and crawled onto Enjolras’s lap the best he could with the guitar in the way and nibbled his bottom lip. 

He loved that he could do that. He loved that there was nothing stopping him from touching Enjolras whenever and _wher_ ever he liked. He loved that he didn’t have to hide how Enjolras made him feel when he bit his lip or brushed back an errant curl. He _loved_ that Enjolras would respond to his advances with equal amounts of lust and adoration, something he never thought he could have. He loved Enjolras. 

He couldn’t help but smile as Enjolras made an obscene noise. 

“Yes thank you I am still here,” said Courfeyrac as he clicked his fingers in their ears. 

“Where’s Combeferre?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire removed himself from his lap. Courfeyrac gave a wicked smile. 

“I’m teaching him a lesson,” he said suggestively and Grantaire actively shut his brain down to stop himself trying to work out what that could mean.

“A-hem.”

Courfeyrac jumped. He scuttled out of the way as a short, middle aged man came forward. His clothes screamed professor, with his bowtie and large glasses and a nervous air about him. 

“Excuse me,” he said quietly, “I am looking for Grantaire.”

Grantaire got up from the floor and gave a little wave. 

“Are you done?” he asked as he dug his hand in the back pocket of his jeans. 

“I am, yes, thank you.”

“Then I’ll show you out.” Grantaire gestured for the man to go first and then he followed him down the corridor. Courfeyrac and Enjolras hung back at Enjolras’s door. 

“There is just one thing I’d like to speak to you about before I leave,” the examiner said, stopping at the end of the hallway. Grantaire felt his stomach drop. Of course there would be something wrong with his work. He was actually quite proud of this piece so it stood to reason that it would be unmarkable or personally disliked by the examiner. 

“Yes?” he said nervously.

“Obviously I can’t tell you what you got for your project, my mark for your final piece will be added to what you were given by your lecturer for your project as a whole.” Grantaire nodded, he understood that. “But what I can tell you is that I am very impressed.”

“What?” Grantaire whispered. The examiner didn’t hear him. 

“You have no idea how many fruit bowl paintings I have to mark every year and be told it is a ‘new and original twist on a classic’. Your lecturer told me you were special and I am glad to say you did not disappoint.” 

Grantaire ducked his head. He always thought his lecturer hated him for his style, refusing to follow the specifications and thinking so far out the box that the box was a dot to him. 

“I would like to enter this piece into a competition, if that is all right with you. I also have a customer who’d be very interested in some of your out-of-the-box works if you’d ever be willing to do commissions. You’d be paid of course. So what do you say?”

Grantaire’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t quite believe he was hearing properly. Was there really someone in the world who would be interested in his artwork? 

He realised he was staring but he was having trouble forming words with his mouth.

“His answer is yes,” supplied Courfeyrac out of nowhere, draping his arm around the examiner’s shoulders. He only looked slightly alarmed. 

“Excellent! Here’s my card. We can arrange a meeting when you are available. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank _you_ sir,” Grantaire managed to say. He stared down at the business card in his hand and then felt a hand take his other one and squeeze. He turned to see Enjolras beaming at him, so proud and happy for him. He squeezed back with a grin. “Have a good evening,” he said to the examiner. The examiner was giving Enjolras a peculiar look, but when Grantaire spoke he shook his head and bowed in a goodbye and left with a smile. 

“He recognised you from the painting,” Grantaire chuckled, shutting the door.

“Never mind that,” said Enjolras, his eyes shining brighter than Grantaire had ever seen them. “You are going to be an artist. A proper artist in a gallery, winning prizes and getting commissions!” He threw his arms around Grantaire’s neck and hugged him tightly, bouncing on his toes. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathed, still a little dazed and not quite believing it. “Yeah I am.” He grinned into Enjolras’s collar bone. “The politician and the artist, do you think the world is ready for us?”

“It’d better be,” Enjolras replied seriously. He caught Grantaire’s lips with his own and kissed him hard, possessively, like a promise and a prize rolled into one. “Because we are coming either way.”


End file.
